


The Power Vacuum Conundrum

by Spork_in_the_Road



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940's Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, But Not Much, F/M, General evilness, Hermione is having none of his shit, Knights of Walpurgis, Political schemes, Tom is an ass, Violence, aka Baby Deatheaters, mental chess, probably some fluff, this is gonna get pretty dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 32,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spork_in_the_Road/pseuds/Spork_in_the_Road
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Note: not about the kind of vacuum that sucks up dirt in muggle homes.</p><p> </p><p>Hermione Granger goes back in time, not to save the future Dark Lord's soul, and not kill him. Instead, she figures she'll offer him some competition for the role of World Leader. She knows that when Grindelwald falls, there will be room for a new player on the field. At least this way, Hermione knows she's the lesser of two evils.<br/> </p><p>Still, playing politics against Tom Riddle is near suicide, especially when he has the home-field advantage. When his interest in her evolves past that of their rivalry, Hermione wonders if she shouldn't have just killed him when she had the chance.<br/> </p><p>Because Tomione Time-Travel stories are my trash addiction and I needed to write one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione lay on her back in the Dark Forest, wondering exactly where she had fucked up. She had been unable to find the strength to move since she had landed there precisely four minutes ago, head pounding worse than the time Fred and George had managed to sneak an entire keg of Firewhiskey into the Gryffindor common room. At the thought of the beloved Weasley twins, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to mentally recite the first chapter of “Hogwarts: a History”, knowing it wouldn’t do her any good to linger on painful memories now. 

 

Her first focus was to get to her wand, which was presumably somewhere on the forest floor, hopefully nearby. She hated to admit that her calculations must have been a little off – she had meant to arrive at the edge of the Black Lake – but now she was grateful for the error. She’d much rather search the forest floor for her wand than the bottom of the lake. 

 

With concentrated effort, she managed to move her fingers, then her hands, then her arms. Her back still pressed to the ground, she slowly moved her arms around, feeling for her wand. Her fingertips brushed against the carved vine-wood, and she grasped it with a sigh of relief. Wand in hand – and with a renewed sense of security – she pushed herself into a sitting position, nearly vomiting from the splitting pain in her sides.

 

Blinking away the purple spots dotting her vision, she gently lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal a large gash running from the top of her hip, up her side, to a spot just under her breast. It wasn’t bleeding profusely, but after carefully prodding the surrounding area, Hermione suspected she had cracked nearly every rib on her left side, not to mention the probability of internal hemorrhaging. She muttered a quick healing spell which stitched up the skin to prevent further blood loss, but the rest of her injuries would need professional medical attention.

 

Shakily, Hermione stood, ignoring the pain shooting through her body. For the first time since she landed in the Dark Forest, she noticed her exact surroundings. She was near the edge of it, the trees not too thick to see through, and Hogwarts stood as a dark shape in the distance, tiny windows of golden light shining brightly in the night. She stumbled towards the castle, the pain in her side seeming less and less important the closer she got. If she could just speak to Dumbledore, to explain the situation, she was sure everything would be alright.

 

She reached the front doors of the castle, slumping against them as she was suddenly struck with a wave of dizziness. She rapped on the door lightly, finding she was starting to lose the energy she had gained upon first seeing the castle. Nevertheless, the doors swung upon, only to reveal a tall boy with slightly disheveled dark hair and a wand pointed straight at her face. Hermione blinked, not fully registering the threat in front of her.

 

“I need to speak with Albus Dumbledore,” she said, her words sounding sluggish even to her own ears. “It’s of the utmost importance.”

 

The purple dots were back in her vision, and she felt her legs wobble unsteadily beneath her. A moment later, the boy’s wand was lowered and Hermione’s vision went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know time travel fics are a little bit overdone, but I'm honestly just trying to have fun writing this.
> 
> Feel free to question, comment, criticize, etc. I'm more than happy to read opinions from anyone. 
> 
> I don't know how long this fic will be, so we'll just see how it goes, I guess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wakes up. That's about it.

Hermione woke to a bright white light shining directly into her face and immediately closed her eyes again, already feeling extremely pissed off. If she had died after all of the bullshit she had gone through in the past forty-eight hours, she was going to be having a very serious conversation with whomever was in charge of the afterlife about exactly what “bad timing” meant. 

 

She slowly opened her eyes again, still facing the blinding light, but forced herself to let her eyes adjust. Instead of the afterlife, she realized that she was merely in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, lying in one of the beds by the window.

 

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” a stern, yet feminine voice said. Hermione jerked her head towards the sound, only to wince as her head exploded in pain. The nurse came into view, sighing. “You’ve got to be careful still. You’ve suffered from some very serious injuries. We almost had to send you to St. Mungo’s.” 

 

Hermione forced herself to relax against the pillows.

 

“Where is my wand?” Hermione asked. 

 

The nurse smiled kindly. “On the bedside table, dear. But you don’t need to worry. You’re safe here.”

 

Hermione stopped herself from immediately reaching for her wand. Nodding slowly instead, she folded her hands in her lap and steeled herself for the barrage of questions that were sure to come. 

 

“I know this is a bit odd,” Hermione said. “But I’ve been so out of sorts. Could you tell me the date?”

 

“Of course. It’s September 3, 1944.”

 

Hermione nodded, deep in thought. If she remembered the timeline correctly, then Tom Riddle was already on a disastrous path. He would have already opened the chamber by now. Myrtle was dead. Tom Riddle Sr. was dead. Any notion she’d had of saving the future Lord Voldemort’s soul was thrown out the window. Well, she reasoned, that was one less thing to worry about. Now, all she needed to do was convince the headmaster to let her stay.

 

As if on cue, two men surged into the room, robes billowing out behind them. The taller one, Hermione recognized almost immediately. The half-moon spectacles and brightly colored robes were consistent with the man from her own time period, even if the auburn hair and beard were somewhat unexpected. Albus Dumbledore stared at Hermione with nothing but suspicion in his eyes, and she felt her hopes drop. Dumbledore would not be on her side this time around, it seemed.

 

The shorter man already had a head of white hair and a matching beard. He was plump, but not fat, and appeared much friendlier than Hermione’s former – future – headmaster. She suspected that he was Armando Dippet, the current headmaster. 

 

“Good, good,” Dippet said. “Glad to see you’re awake. And not in such a horrid state as when you arrived. Quite lucky, that.”

 

“Thank you for healing me,” Hermione said quietly.

 

“Of course, of course. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell us your name, and perhaps what you’re doing here,” Dippet said.

 

Hermione nodded slowly. “My name is Hermione Graves. I was travelling…travelling in France with my parents. We were in the countryside. We didn’t think the war was bad out there.” She paused, looking down. In order for her plan to work, she needed to be believed, especially by Dumbledore. She took a deep breath. “There was an attack on our house. Grindelwald’s forces.” She allowed a slight tremble to creep into her voice. 

 

“Your parents?” Albus pressed.

 

“My father was killed instantly,” Hermione said, not meeting his eyes. “My mother and I managed to get out of the house, but they were following us. She told me to come to Hogwarts, that I would be safe here. Grindelwald’s men caught up to us just as I was leaving. My mother stayed behind to fight them off. I am sure she is dead now.” 

 

“Is there anyone we can contact for you? Your remaining family, perhaps?” Albus asked. 

 

Hermione shook her head slowly. “My only other relatives were killed in a muggle bombing.” 

 

“You poor dear,” the nurse said as she handed Hermione a glass of water. The nurse glared at the two older men. “This girl needs her rest, as I’m sure you can imagine. You can question her further later.” 

 

Dippet nodded, then turned to Hermione. “We will, of course, offer your sanctuary as a student. I assume you’ve had some sort of magical education?”

 

Hermione nodded. “My mother taught me.”

 

“When you are fully recovered, we will have to have you tested so we can place you in the proper classes, of course,” Dippet said. “Until then, do try to rest up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow start, but we'll be picking up the pace in the next chapter. 
> 
> Please, feel free to review, comment, question, and criticize. Your input improves my output. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets Tom in person. The game begins.

The next time Hermione woke, she was acutely aware of someone sitting at her bedside even before her eyes were fully opened. She felt reassured by the wand in her hand – she had insisted on sleeping with it, despite the objections of the nurse. Slowly, she opened her eyes a crack to catch a glimpse of the person next to her.

 

Hermione instantly recognized him as the boy she had come to loathe, and, ironically, the one who had opened the doors for her just last night. Tom Riddle. His actions had saved her life. Another five to ten minutes without medical care and she would have suffered more permanent damage, or so the nurse had told her. She suppressed a snort. She suspected that this would be the only time the future Dark Lord actually saved someone’s life other than his own.

 

The dark-haired boy must have heard her shift around, for he peered over the newspaper he was reading to look at her, only to then fold it and set it aside completely.

 

“Glad to see you’re awake,” he said. Hermione opened her eyes the rest of the way, somewhat sheepishly. “Tom Riddle. We met at the door.”

 

Hermione unintentionally quirked a brow. Was he trying to be funny?

 

He cleared his throat. “And you are?”

 

“Hermione Graves,” she answered, noting with displeasure that her voice was disgustingly raspy in comparison to his smooth baritone. “I suppose I owe you for saving my life.”

 

Riddle flashed her a charming smile. “It was lucky that I was doing my rounds when you knocked. I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered somewhat.”

 

She returned his smile, noting that he didn’t deny that she owed him. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.” 

 

“You were in quite a state when you arrived,” he said. Hermione pressed her lips together, but otherwise kept her face neutral. She could tell where this line of questioning was going. “It must have been a rough trip.”

 

“It was,” Hermione said truthfully.

 

“Headmaster Dippet told me you were running from Grindelwald’s men,” Tom said. Hermione frowned slightly, mentally noting to never tell Dippet anything remotely important. Unless, of course, she wanted him to tell Riddle. “I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

 

Hermione nodded her head. “Thank you. I am still quite shocked from the whole event, but Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore have been so kind as to offer me a place at this school.”

 

If she had not been looking for it, Hermione would have missed the twitch of irritation on Riddle’s face at the mention of Dumbledore’s name. Tom schooled his features almost immediately, but Hermione was satisfied with the tiny reaction.

 

“I am sure you must still be recovering,” Tom said. He held up a relatively small, purple, beaded bag. Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “I found this in the woods and assumed it must be yours.”

 

If she had expected him to withhold the bag, she was mistaken. He carefully placed it on the bedside table before turning back to her.

 

“How did you manage to find it?” Hermione asked, still surprised that he hadn’t simply kept the bag to look through her belongings. 

 

Riddle offered her a lopsided smile, and Hermione was again reminded of how effective the future Dark Lord was at charming people to do his bidding at the beginning of his regime. 

 

“Miss Graves, I mean no offense when I say that you left a very obvious trail through the Dark Forest. At first, the gamekeeper thought that a wounded animal had stumbled through. Your bag was at the end of the trail,” he said. He eyed Hermione curiously. “What sort of curse did you put on it? It burned my hand when I picked up your bag.”

 

Hermione feigned worry. “Are you alright? It was a simple protection spell, but I certainly didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

Well, that was an outright lie, Hermione thought. She had actually hoped that Riddle would have attempted to look inside the bag. He would have likely been blinded if he had.

 

Riddle narrowed his eyes marginally. “My wound was minor.” He pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time. “I’m afraid I have another class to attend to, but I hope to see you out of the hospital wing soon. Perhaps I could give you a tour of the castle? I am Head Boy, after all.”

 

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “That would be delightful.”

 

Riddle nodded curtly. “Until then, Miss Graves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will be picking up in the next few chapters, so brace yourselves :)
> 
> Please feel free to review, comment, question, or criticize.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets some advice from a sorting hat.

When Hermione was handed the results from her placement tests, she was almost happy. They still looked a little too-perfect to her, and she had even been holding back. She knew she had always been remarkably intelligent, but being in the war, searching for horcruxes, and going on the run had really put her knowledge to practical use. Most 18 year-old witches and wizards couldn’t do half the things she could, and she was worried that her test results might have given that away. Or at least, she was worried until she was told that she had the second-highest scores.

 

“Second-highest?” Hermione asked, mouth hanging open slightly. 

 

“In everything except herbology,” Dippet said cheerfully. He frowned, then. “Well, and divination. Your scores in that subject were surprisingly low.”

 

Hermione disregarded the comment on her divination skills. “Who has the highest score?”

 

“That would be Mr. Riddle, the Head Boy,” Dippet said. “I daresay, Albus, don’t you think Horace will be absolutely thrilled to have her in class? Another bright mind. And a woman, too.” He shook his head in disbelief.

 

Deciding that she only had time to be furious about one thing at a time, Hermione merely clenched her fists at Dippet’s blatant sexism. The only way to change someone’s opinion was to prove them wrong, in this case. Besides, nothing would be more satisfying than completely overthrowing Tom Riddle’s reputation as the smartest student at Hogwarts. 

 

Hermione internally chastised herself. That was a very Gryffindor way of thinking – a way of thinking that would be useless to her if she wanted to compete with Riddle. And that was what she wanted to do. She had been on the fence about it since before her time jump, whether to simply kill him outright or attempt to beat him at his own political game. But the more time she spent in the past – and it had only been a little over thirty-six very short hours – the more she realized that she’d have to switch her approach to something a little more subtle.

 

She had thought about it, had spent hours planning out dozens of different scenarios in her head. Killing Riddle would only create space for a different political leader, just as Grindelwald’s downfall ultimately allowed for Voldemort’s rise to power. Hermione wasn’t willing to see just what sort of evil could be worse that Lord Voldemort, but she couldn’t simply let Riddle destroy the world either. The solution had ultimately been simple, if somewhat daunting.

 

She would fill the power vacuum herself, never allowing Riddle to gain full power. It would be tricky, seeing as he had a seven-year head start on gaining followers and building a reputation, but Hermione was up for the challenge. She knew enough about politics to know that even one bad incident could forever ruin a political campaign. All she had to do was uncover a few truths about Tom Riddle, or reveal a few of his lies, and he’d lose his standing as the do-no-wrong Head Boy. 

 

“Miss Graves,” Dippet said, clearing his throat and drawing her out of her thoughts. “The sorting hat will place you now.”

 

Hermione sat on the stool next to Dippet, feeling much calmer than she had during the first time she had been sorted. She supposed it helped that she knew exactly where she wanted to be this time. Ravenclaw, the house she had always thought she’d be best suited for, seemed ideal for her goals. They were more even-tempered than Gryffindors, less forgiving than Hufflepuffs, and not as heavily influenced by Riddle as the Slytherins. Plus, they were intellectuals who understood reason and logic. They would turn on Riddle once Hermione supplied them with sufficient evidence. All in all, they would make the perfect first supporters of her upcoming political campaign. 

 

“Well, well, well. You are quite the surprise,” the sorting hat’s voice suddenly reverberated in her head, causing her to jump slightly. It chuckled at her response. “It’s so rare to have such a late sorting. I almost never get to see thoughts quite so well put as your own.”

 

“I have always been very logical,” Hermione provided. “Perhaps Ravenclaw would be the best fit.”

 

The hat chuckled again. “You would be wasted in Ravenclaw. No, I think you would find they do not suit your needs at all.”

 

Hermione stiffened. “And where do you think would suit my needs, as you put it?”

 

“You are brave, that much is clear. Quick to action in the heat of the moment, driven by passion and anger, and yet, Gryffindor is not quite right either. Hufflepuff is out of the question,” the hat said. “Which leaves –“

 

“Wait,” Hermione said. “I’ll be eaten alive in Slytherin.”

 

“Oh?” the hat asked.

 

“I’m a half-blood,” Hermione said. “My father was a muggle.”

 

“Blood isn’t everything, Miss Graves,” the hat said. “Or should I say, Miss Granger.”

 

Hermione froze, earning another chuckle from the hat.

 

“Your secrets are safe with me,” the hat said. “Your plan is clever, cunning, and just underhanded enough to be effective, I think. I cannot in good conscience put you anywhere but Slytherin.”

 

“I’ll be an outcast in my own house,” Hermione said, desperate. “No one from the other houses will trust me. How can you expect me to succeed if you throw me to the snakes right off?”

 

“’ If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle,’” the hat recited.

 

Hermione frowned. “That’s from ‘The Art of War’ isn’t it?”

 

“My point is that you are starting a war, Miss Granger. In the snake pit or not, you will become Mr. Riddle’s target. You will come to see that I’ve done you a favor.”

 

“But how—“

 

“I suggest you get creative,” the hat said. 

 

“SLYTHERIN!” it shouted, this time for Dippet and Dumbledore to hear as well. Dippet removed the hat from Hermione’s head.

 

“Oh, Horace will surely be excited now,” Dippet gushed. “You were a hat-stall and now a Slytherin.”

 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Horace Slughorn will be your head of house,” he explained. Hermione suppressed a groan. That man’s involvement had not occurred to her, and though Dippet had mentioned Horace before, she had failed to make the connection. 

 

There was a brief knock on the door. 

 

“Ah, that will be the Head Boy, Mr. Riddle,” Dippet said cheerfully. “He’s in your house, you know.”

 

Hermione did know, and she was none too pleased about it. 

 

Riddle entered the room with a curt nod towards Dumbledore and a smile at Dippet. His eyes met hers after a moment, and she nearly shivered at the darkness of them. He offered her a slight smile, but it did nothing to ease the suspicion – or was it curiosity – that she could read so clearly on his face.

 

“Tom, you remember Miss Graves,” Dippet said, gesturing towards Hermione. 

 

“Of course,” Riddle replied, his eyes never leaving her. “It’s good to see you out of that hospital bed.”

 

“Miss Graves has been sorted into Slytherin,” Dippet said. Riddle’s eyebrows raised momentarily of their own accord before his expression shifted back into the polite façade he had carefully crafted. 

 

“Welcome to Slytherin,” Riddle said.

 

“Why don’t you show her around the castle so that she can familiarize herself with it?” Dippet suggested.

 

“What an excellent idea, sir. Miss Graves?” Riddle extended an arm towards her. She hesitated for a moment, but took it, not wanting to seem rude.

 

The moment they were out of the Headmaster’s office, Riddle turned to her.

 

“Slytherin, huh?” he said, eyeing her curiously. “I must say I am surprised.”

 

“Why is that?” Hermione asked.

 

“You don’t seem like the type,” he said. He shrugged. “But I find that the sorting hat rarely makes mistakes.”

 

“Well, I was a hat-stall,” Hermione said. In her peripheral vision, she saw a brief flash of surprise cross Riddle’s face. 

 

“I suppose you’ve already been placed in classes as well.”

 

Hermione nodded. “I’ll be in seventh year. Perhaps we will have some of the same classes.” Riddle smiled sheepishly at her, and Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

 

“We might have some classes, though I am in all the advanced courses,” he said. 

 

Hermione smiled sharply. “As am I. My placement scores were second only to yours, after all. It would be a waste to sit through lessons I am already proficient in.” 

 

She thought she saw Riddle’s jaw click, but a moment later, he was back to his charming self.

 

“This is the entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon,” he said. “The password is ‘grimoire’. Students from other houses are not usually permitted in the common room.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Good,” Riddle said. “I have a class in ten minutes, so this is where I leave you. Make yourself at home. I’ll walk you to the dining hall at six o’clock sharp.”

 

Hermione thought she’d rather not have him walk her anywhere, but since she wasn’t supposed to know the layout of Hogwarts, she merely nodded in agreement. As soon as he was out of sight, however, she turned and walked in the opposite direction, heading straight for the comfort of the library. She wasn’t feeling up to bracing the snake pit just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote that the sorting hat recites is a rough translation from "The Art of War" by Sun Tzu. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> As always, feel free to review, comment, critique, or question. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has her first, first-hand taste of Slytherin prejudice.

Hermione was about five seconds away from lighting the sorting hat on fire and tossing its ashes in the Black Lake.

 

“So, Graves. That’s not a last name I’m familiar with.”

 

Hermione looked up from her plate to meet the gaze of the aristocratic blond boy sitting directly across from her. For some god-forsaken reason, Riddle had insisted that she sit with him and his friends. Hermione suspected that it was to maintain his perfect student image in front of the professors.

 

“It sounds awfully muggle,” the blond said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Hermione’s grip tightened slightly on her fork.

 

“That would be because it’s a muggle name,” she said, forcing her voice to sound even. Everyone at the table around her fell silent almost immediately.

 

“How the fuck did you get sorted into Slytherin?” the blond boy asked, mouth hanging open.

 

“Abraxas, language,” Riddle said from her left, his voice soft but commanding. The blond, Abraxas, paled. 

 

“I might ask you the same thing,” Hermione said after a moment, narrowing her eyes at the blond. He reminded her so much of his grandson, Draco, that Hermione couldn’t help but be a little prejudiced against him.

 

“Excuse you,” he said, mouth dropping open another fraction of an inch. Everyone in the immediate area was now watching their exchange. 

 

Hermione shrugged. “I was under the impression that you Slytherins had some semblance of tact. Clearly, that’s not a requirement.”

 

If Hermione had been watching Riddle instead of Malfoy, she would have noticed the slightest twitch of a smile on his lips. 

 

“How dare you insult me,” Malfoy seethed. “My family has been in Slytherin since the founding of Hogwarts. And now your filth tarnishes—“

 

“Abraxas, enough,” Riddle snapped. “Unless you want me to deduct house points.” The blond shut his mouth and stood from the table, taking Riddle’s command as a dismissal.

 

Hermione scowled. She supposed it had been too much to hope that Riddle would out himself as a blood-purist in public. That would have been too-easy.

 

He returned to his meal, seemingly ignoring Hermione, but she felt as though he was observing her every move. Her frown deepened; she was drawing too much attention to herself. If she was going to successfully undermine him, she needed to fly under the radar. And to do that, she needed to somehow make him think that she was just like everyone else.

 

She just wasn’t quite sure how to do that yet.

 

He turned towards her, one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?”

 

Hermione flushed red as she realized that she had been staring at him. “Uh…”

 

Someone nearby snickered, and Hermione felt her face heat even more. Great, now he was going to think she liked him. Rather than calling her out on it, though, like she had been expecting, Riddle merely adopted a bored expression and turned back to his food.

 

Hermione turned back to her own food, trying to ignore the sneers and snickers of her fellow Slytherin classmates. She needed to think, to figure out how she might use her assumed infatuation with him to her advantage. The damage was done, she was sure of it. Perhaps Riddle would avoid her now. That would be useful, she decided. 

 

Someone, clearly a woman’s voice, hissed, “Muggle whore,” just loudly enough for Hermione to hear. She sighed internally. This was not a conducive thinking environment. She needed quiet. She needed the library. Without really thinking about it too much, she stood abruptly from the table, drawing the eyes of everyone in the near vicinity, including Riddle, who lifted his head at the sudden movement. She grabbed her bag and practically twirled away from the table towards the doors. Even as she left, she could hear the gossip beginning. Good, she thought. Let them think she was embarrassed or upset. 

 

She had only just exited the Great Hall when she heard the soft, indecipherable mumble of a spell, saw the flash of light, felt her body collapse beneath her. 

 

A pair of shiny, dark shoes came into her field of vision. Her father had once told her that you could learn anything you needed to know about a person by their shoes. This pair told her that the owner was wealthy, flamboyant, and a right git.

 

Abraxas Malfoy loomed above her, sneering unpleasantly.

 

“I think you and I need to have a little discussion about manners.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end on a cliffhanger, but I think it's really the perfect wrap-up to this chapter. Up next is a good one.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and sticking through the setup of the story :)
> 
> Please feel free to comment, critique, question, and review. 
> 
> Again, I'm ridiculously thrilled that anyone is reading this story, so thank you :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione faces a foe, and then makes a friend.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 

Hermione chanted the word over and over in her head as Abraxas Malfoy levitated her immobile, disillusioned body through the twisting hallways of the dungeon. She had never been overly familiar with this part of the castle, only venturing down there for potions class, but she knew that they were somewhat close to the Slytherin common room. However, Malfoy passed by the portrait to the common room without so much as a glance in its direction.

 

They entered an empty classroom and Hermione was dumped rather unceremoniously on the ground. Unable to break her fall due to the immobility of her limbs, she crashed face-first into the stone floor. She tasted blood in her mouth, and wondered idly if anything was broken. She heard the door click shut and the distinct sound of a lock sliding into place. 

 

The only good thing about this situation was that Abraxas had neglected to take her wand, Hermione thought. Not that it would do her any good unless she could move, seeing as it was tucked firmly up her sleeve in her arm-holster. She tried desperately to wiggle her fingers, but even that small motion seemed beyond her at present.

 

A simple stinging hex hit her in the side, drawing her attention back to her opponent. Hermione was refusing to think of him as her captor. She still couldn’t believe that Malfoy, of all people, had disabled her so easily. 

 

“Not so cheeky now, are you?” he said, lips curled into the signature Malfoy sneer. Another stinging hex hit her side, but Hermione barely winced. She’d dealt with much more severe pain in the past year alone due to the war. Malfoy was going to have to step up his game if he actually wanted to hurt her.

 

“You know what I think about filthy mudbloods like you?” he asked.

 

“I’m half-blooded, actually,” Hermione said. She froze. If she could talk now, then maybe she could wiggle her fingers. And if she could move her fingers, she could get her wand. 

 

“That doesn’t fucking matter,” Abraxas said with a shrug. “You’re still scum. Still unworthy of being in Slytherin.” 

 

He sent another stinging hex her way, this one aimed at her face. She yelped as it struck her. Abraxas grinned. For the second time today, Hermione wondered that he’d been placed in Slytherin at all. He was too brash, too quick to action, too straight-forward. She also wondered why he wasn’t using darker curses. Wasn’t he supposed to be one of Voldemort’s first followers?

 

“You need to learn your place,” he said decidedly. “Lacero.” The next hex sliced across her upper leg, and blood seeped out, soaking her now-torn stockings. 

 

She wiggled her fingers experimentally and found that if she stretched she could almost touch the very end of her wand. She wiggled a bit more, ignoring the second cutting hex that sliced across her abdomen. Her fingers wrapped around the end of her wand, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. She needed to get out of here, but she needed to make Malfoy think he’d won. It was far too early for her to show her hand; she needed all of Slytherin to think she was as non-threatening as possible. 

 

Hermione let Abraxas get a few more hits in, mostly to observe his wand-work and file that information away for later. She noticed that he could do some small spells non-verbally, something she’d have to be on the lookout for. 

 

Abraxas raised his wand at her again, but this time she was ready. As he cast yet another cutting hex, Hermione non-verbally cast a shield charm and then quickly followed up with a confundus charm. As soon as her spell landed, Hermione launched to her feet, ignoring the sting of the cuts that stretched as she moved. Though she would have preferred to hex Malfoy until he couldn’t breathe, she scurried past him and out the door. She was certain there would be other fights in the future where she could thoroughly destroy him, but for now, she needed to clean herself up and pretend to be rattled. 

 

Knowing that the Slytherin common room would likely be occupied by now seeing as it had been some time since dinner, she headed instead to the nearest lavatory. Hermione’s lip curled in disgust when she spotted her reflection in the mirror. 

 

She looked like she had stepped out of a muggle horror film. Her lip was split from where she had fallen on her face, her robes torn in several places and soaked in her own blood, and her hair was a wild, tangled mess. She supposed though, that her hair was pretty much always like that, and so she set to work mending her robes and healing the worst of her cuts. 

 

“You’ve been in a row, haven’t ya?”

 

Hermione jerked around, wand at the ready, only to come face to face with a short, slim girl who reminded her of Ginny Weasley – waist-length red hair, freckles everywhere, and an amused, yet unimpressed expression on her face. Hermione eyed her warily, nonetheless.

 

“Adessa Prewett,” the red-haired girl said, extending her hand. Hermione gripped it firmly, surprised by the muggle-esque handshake. Wasn’t Molly Weasley’s maiden name ‘Prewett’, Hermione thought. She made a mental note to somehow check on that later. Adessa’s eyes flicked up to Hermione’s hair. “You’ve got a bit of blood right there.” 

 

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled as she hurriedly vanished the blood from her hair and robes. She turned back to the other girl. “Hermione Graves.”

 

Adessa laughed. “Oh, I know who you are.” Seeing Hermione’s surprised expression, she rushed to explain. “Dippet’s trying not to make a big deal out of your arrival. Something about not wanting to incite panic over the increase in Grindelwald attacks, I think. But see, Caroline Cross was kind of with Riddle the night he found you – if you know what I mean – and she never could keep her mouth shut about anything for long. So naturally, half the school knows that you’re Hermione Graves, that you’ve been sorted into Slytherin, and that you fled France to get away from Gindelwald.”

 

Hermione frowned. “Already?” 

 

Adessa shrugged. “There’s a rumor going around that you’re an undercover hit-wizard working for the ministry, and that you spent the last year infiltrating and tracking Grindelwald’s movements, and that now you’ve been sent to Hogwarts to weed out his supporters here.”

 

Hermione’s mouth popped open in protest. “I’m not a hit-wizard.”

 

Adessa laughed again. “Obviously. But it’s a good rumor, anyways. It’s always good to have a badass backstory, just so people don’t mess with you.”

 

“Clearly, it’s not working,” Hermione said, gesturing to her now mostly-healed body. Adessa looked her up and down.

 

“Slytherins?” she guessed. Hermione nodded. “I thought so. It kind of looked like you pissed off a few of them at dinner.”

 

“By not being a pureblood,” Hermione said, frustrated. She had known that blood prejudice would be a problem – it had been a problem in her own day too. She just hadn’t expected to be thrown into Slytherin where she’d have to deal with it right away.

 

“Bigots,” Adessa said. Hermione jerked her head up. She hadn’t exactly expected the other girl to be on her side.

 

“But aren’t you pureblooded?” Hermione asked, confused. She thought most purebloods of the time were pretty dead-set against muggle-borns and half-bloods. 

 

The red-head rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah, but I heard that you were some sort of ministry hit-wizard. I’m not stupid enough to piss you off.”

 

A laugh slipped out of Hermione’s mouth before she could stop it.

 

“But seriously,” Adessa said. “I don’t really buy into that sort of thing. It doesn’t make any logical sense for blood to have any effect on magical abilities. The very existence of muggle-borns undermines blood-purist arguments.”

 

Hermione eyed the other girl’s red and gold tie with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure the hat didn’t mean to put you in Ravenclaw?” 

 

“Hey, Gryffindors can be smart too,” she said in mock offense. A smile tugged at Hermione’s lips. “Anyway, anyone who gets into a fight on their first day is my kind of person, so if you ever want to escape the snake-pit, you’ll know where to find me.” She pointed to her tie for emphasis.

 

Hermione smiled. This was good, she thought. Hermione knew how Gryffindors worked, and with Adessa’s support, it wouldn’t take too long to make friends and begin persuading them to her side. And then, once she had gained their trust, she’d prove that Riddle was just like every other Slytherin, and all of Gryffindor would be hers. 

 

“Thanks,” Hermione said. “I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me really wanted to write an epic, badass fight scene in which Hermione would reign supreme and Malfoy would be dust. But as much as I love BAMF Hermione -- and I promise she'll be showing that side of herself later on -- I don't want things to escalate too quickly. This story is not beta read, and I pretty much post things as I write them, which means little to no editing. Because of that, I really appreciate feedback of any kind, so if you have suggestions, please feel free to share them.
> 
> Comments, questions, criticisms, and reviews are ALWAYS welcome.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Oodles of love <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief dip into Tom's point of view.

Tom Riddle was not having a particularly good morning. For one, Abraxas had not stopped fuming about “the insolence of that half-blooded bitch” since he had apparently allowed her to escape – with an unaltered memory – the night before. Tom hadn’t yet had a chance to deal with that particular issue – a thorough cursing was in order, since he himself had not authorized the attack on Miss Graves, and because Abraxas had neglected to effectively clean up his own mess – because he had been dealing with his other project: Caroline Cross.

 

The girl was infuriatingly simple, with no remarkable qualities to speak of despite her barely-above-average looks. Time spent in her presence would have been time wasted, if it were not for the simple fact that her uncle worked directly under the head of the Auror Department. Caroline had let slip several highly-classified tidbits of information, and Tom had put up with the rest of her incessant babbling for the sake of gathering that information. He had been seducing her since the end of last year, and when they had returned to school, she had been more than willing to tell him everything he wanted to know. 

 

Or rather, the secrets had spilled from her lips after he snogged her with a tongue-full of veritaserum.

 

But then, of course, the mystery of Hermione Graves had shown up. Rather good timing, too, Tom had to admit, seeing as Miss Graves’ arrival had interrupted a somewhat over-eager Caroline, who had been making a poor attempt at a strip-tease. It had been a relief to have an excuse to walk away from that, Tom thought. And then, Caroline had shown up right outside Slytherin common room, just moments after Abraxas had stormed in, crying about how Tom was ignoring her. He’d been forced to soothe some ruffled feathers.

 

And now, there apparently wasn’t any bacon with breakfast.

 

All in all, Tom felt like he was getting a migraine.

 

“I heard she’s a hit-wizard from the ministry,” a fourth-year was saying from somewhere down the table. “They say she used to be in Azkaban until the minister himself came and let her out, but only if she agreed to help him fight Grindelwald.”

 

“Rubbish,” a fifth-year girl said, snorting. “And what do you mean ‘they say’? Nobody actually believes those rumors.”

 

“Oh yeah?” the fourth-year said, smirking. “Well, I heard she was seen going into the girls’ bathroom last night covered in blood. Someone else’s blood.” 

 

Tom kept his head down, but his attention was focused entirely on the conversation taking place down the table. There was only one person they could be talking about. Tom wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Hermione Graves was a hit-wizard or that she had ever been to Azkaban, but the rumor about her being covered in blood might have some truth to it, he reasoned. He looked up slowly, making eye-contact with Abraxas, who paled at Tom’s cold glare. 

 

Suddenly the conversation stopped, and Tom could only fathom one reason for that. From the corner of his eye, he could see the petite, bushy-haired girl who had fallen into the center of the rumor mill. She walked into the Great Hall quickly, head down. Even with her wild curls obscuring most of her face, Tom could see the light purple bruising on her cheek and a scabbed over cut on her lip. Abraxas’s doing, no doubt. 

 

She situated herself at the far end of the Slytherin table, not bothering to even glance in his direction. Tom was somewhat impressed; it seemed Abraxas’s impromptu “lesson” had sunk in enough for the girl to be intimidated. Perhaps Abraxas seemed to have noticed as well, if the snide grin stretching across his face was any indication. 

 

Involuntarily, Tom’s eyes flickered towards the front of the room, his gaze immediately locking in on Dumbledore. The old man was, as ever, annoyingly observant. Though this time, his suspicion seemed to be on the girl rather than Tom. Curious.

 

Sighing to himself, Tom stood from the table, abandoning his half-eaten breakfast in favor of walking towards the Graves girl. It wouldn’t do to have his Head-Boy image tarnished now by ignoring a student so clearly in need of peer acceptance. Not even if his headache was growing worse by the minute. 

 

“Would you mind if I sat with you?” he asked once he was near enough to speak at a normal level and still be heard.

 

She made a vague sort of gesture, which Tom chose to interpret as, “Help yourself.” He sat beside her, noticing how she shifted slightly to move away from him. 

 

“How are you settling in?” he asked. 

 

Hermione, who had her coffee cup halfway to her mouth, paused. “Well enough.” 

 

Tom frowned. “I noticed you have some new injuries,” he said, voice full of false concern. “If any student has attacked you—“

 

“I fell,” Hermione said with a shrug, cutting him off. “I’ve always been a bit clumsy, and these moving staircases keep throwing me off. I’m sure I’ll get used to them soon.”

 

He smiled politely, but his mind was turning at a mile a minute. So Hermione Graves was a liar, and a damn good one. If he hadn’t known exactly what had happened to her last night, he might have believed her little story. But now…

 

Now he wanted to know what else she was lying about.

 

“Well, if you ever need anything, you can come to me,” he said, voice soft and low. It was the same tone he often used with Caroline Cross to get what he wanted, a trick he had mastered as soon as he had realized that women in general often found such a tone completely irresistible. He watched in satisfaction as Hermione’s face flushed a medium shade of pink.

 

But, in the same fashion that his morning seemed to be going, any hold he currently had over Hermione Graves was shattered by the arrival of a slender red-head wearing a Gryffindor tie.

 

“Please, please, please, tell me we have some classes together,” the girl said as she plopped onto the bench directly across from Hermione, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was practically unheard of for anyone to sit at another house’s table. When Hermione didn’t immediately respond, the red-head turned her head at an angle, as if in thought. “You do have your class schedule, don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Hermione huffed. “Just give me a moment, honestly.”

 

Riddle resisted the urge to frown at the startling familiarity between the two girls. How was it possible that she already had friends, and outside of Slytherin, no less? That wouldn’t work in his favor at all, he thought, extremely displeased. In order for Hermione to trust him, he needed to be her closest, dearest confidante, and so far, he was already second-place to a gangly Gryffindor. 

 

He cleared his throat. “Miss Prewett, I wasn’t aware you knew Miss Graves.”

 

Hermione answered before the other girl could. “We met in the bathroom, actually,” she said as she rifled through her small, beaded bag – the one that had burned Tom only a few days ago. “After my fall off the stairs, I was trying to clean up the worst of my injuries.”

 

Adessa’s eyebrow twitched upward as Hermione mentioned her “fall”, and Tom made a mental note to curse Abraxas until the blond boy could no longer lift his wand. If Hermione had told the Prewett girl about the attack, it was only a matter of time before Dumbledore would be on Tom’s trail again, looking for any excuse to have him expelled. At the very least, Abraxas would be severely punished and would likely lose respect amongst the teachers. Tom felt his headache return with a vengeance. 

 

“There’s a rumor that you were covered in someone else’s blood last night when you went into the bathroom,” Tom said, not quite sure why he felt the need to repeat fourth-year gossip. Maybe his headache was affecting his judgment.

 

The Prewett girl laughed, which in turn pulled a small smile from Hermione. Riddle tried not to openly scowl. Somehow, he needed to end this friendship between the two girls. In order for his plan to work, Hermione needed to be isolated, dependent solely on the support of Tom and his associates. 

 

“I may have started that one,” Adessa admitted, still grinning. Hermione rolled her eyes and set a sheet of parchment on the table, sliding it towards Adessa. 

 

“My schedule, as requested,” Hermione said. 

 

Adessa snatched up the paper, eyes darting across the page. She frowned. “We only have Herbology and History together. Why did you have to go and take all the advanced classes?”

 

“Dippet insisted when he saw my test scores,” Hermione said sheepishly. “Besides, I want to really challenge myself. I couldn’t bear to be in a class that simply repeated lessons I’ve already learned.”

 

Tom flashed her a polite smile. “May I see?” he asked, nodding towards the parchment. Hermione handed her schedule to him wordlessly. He scanned the page and noted with some surprise that she was going to be in all of his classes with the exception of divination, which Miss Graves was not taking, “It seems we will be in most of the same classes,” he said. “Do you have your textbooks yet?”

 

Hermione shook her head. “I only just ordered them yesterday.”

 

“You’re more than welcome to share mine until they arrive,” Tom said as he handed Hermione her schedule. “And perhaps you would allow me to walk you to class, seeing as we’re going to the same place?”

 

He watched, slightly confused, as Hermione Graves hesitated. He had assumed she would jump on the chance, especially given how much she had been staring at him last night at dinner. Suddenly, Hermione winced and turned to glare at the red-head across from her, who had – if Tom was guessing correctly – kicked Hermione under the table. The Prewett girl merely frowned innocently, as if she had done absolutely nothing wrong. 

 

“Thank you, Mr. Riddle,” Hermione said after a moment. “Again, it seems I am indebted to you.” 

 

Tom smiled. “It’s my pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a whole lot happens in this chapter, I know, but I'm hoping to update again soon, and that should be a little more exciting.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and reviewing and leaving kudos. It really means a lot :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat in the hallway. Hermione is struggling to play her part. Tom is unimpressed.

Hermione’s face was beet red as Tom offered her his arm. She really, really, didn’t want to let him escort her to class. She would have declined, except for the fact that she wasn’t supposed to know where her classes were. Not to mention, she was still at least partially hoping to get Dumbledore on her side, and she doubted showing up to her first Transfiguration class with her arm looped through Tom Riddle’s was going to warm the cockles of his heart. 

 

People were staring as Riddle led her away from the table, including his cronies, who eyed her curiously. Hermione kept her head ducked, only peering at them from underneath her hair, when her eyes caught a girl two tables over giving her the worst death-glare Hermione had seen in a while. She remembered vaguely that Riddle was supposed to be with some girl named Carol Crisp, or something like that, and idly wondered if that was her. 

 

“I must admit that I’m surprised you’ve found a friend in Miss Prewett,” Riddle said as soon as they were in the hallway. Hermione glanced around nervously, noting that they were alone aside from the portraits lining the walls. She cursed herself for accepting his invitation to walk her to class; if she had known she’d be alone with him, she would have claimed Dippet had given her a map. 

 

“Why is that?” Hermione asked after a moment, when she realized that Riddle had been waiting for her to say something.

 

“Inter-house friendships are not all that common, especially between Slytherins and Gryffindors,” he said slowly. Hermione suppressed a frown. She had known that, of course, but she hadn’t thought about how her friendship with Adessa would impact her relationships with potential allies in Slytherin. 

 

“I see,” she said. Riddle was watching her from the corner of his eye as they walked.

 

“I only mention it because I would hate to see you get hurt in the midst of house rivalries.”

 

Hermione’s head snapped up at that, meeting his concerned gaze head on. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Something flashed in his eyes that seemed almost triumphant, but it was gone before Hermione could analyze it further.

 

His brow furrowed in faux concern and he pursed his lips, as if thinking over how to word something. Hermione nearly snorted in indignation; Riddle had probably rehearsed this conversation in his head already. He probably had it all planned out perfectly, just thoughtfully enough to manipulate her into abandoning her friendship with Adessa. Hermione kept her face neutral as she waited for him to explain.

 

“I mean,” he said slowly, giving her the most cautiously pitying look he could manage, “that Miss Prewett may attempt to exploit her friendship with you as a way of…getting back at Slytherin. I don’t want to see you get hurt that way.” Hermione took a deep breath and forced the tension to drain out of her body, though she would have rather done anything else. Like hex Riddle for being a liar and a con-artist.

 

“I…appreciate your concern,” Hermione said. “I will be cautious with Adessa, as I am with any new acquaintance.” She watched him carefully, wondering if what she’d said would be enough to put him at ease. 

 

He seemed to relax and offered her a perfectly even, blindingly white smile. For a moment, Hermione was reminded again of what people saw in him. 

-

Tom watched her react to his smile, slightly dazed, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How typical. He was, however, encouraged by Hermione’s use of the word ‘acquaintance’ when referring to Miss Prewett; that would make it easier for him to get close to her. 

 

Although, he had to admit that he was starting to question whether it was worth it or not. There were moments, of course, when he was sure that the girl was hiding something. She always seemed hesitant to be near him – had in fact, never gone out of her way to do so. Most of the time, she seemed as though she’d rather not be near him, an oddity for any young woman. Tom had learned some time ago that he was what people called “classically handsome”, and he had never ceased to use that to his advantage.

 

Which was perhaps why he was so disappointed that Hermione Graves had turned out to have a silly crush on him like every other girl at Hogwarts. He had hoped that she had some exciting secret, and that was the reason why she had seemed shy, even to the point of avoiding him. But no, the amount of staring she’d done at dinner the night before, the way she flushed when he’d escorted her out of the Great Hall, and now, the way she looked at him, half-dazed, all indicated her interest in him.

 

As they continued their walk, the Graves girl occasionally chattering about one of the paintings or something she read in “Hogwarts: A History”, Tom realized that she was about as uninteresting as Caroline Cross, and he was bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for huge span of time in between now and my last update. I've spent the past six weeks studying at St. Anne's in Oxford, which was amazing, but I barely had any time to write at all. Thanks so much for being patient with me, and I'm sure I"ll be updating much more frequently now. 
> 
> As always, feel free to comment, criticize, etc. 
> 
> A reminder that this work is un-beta-d, so I apologize for any mistakes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New characters and important conversations.

Hermione was relieved when Tom escorted her to a seat that was not anywhere near his own, and somewhat formally bid her farewell. She almost smiled, but thought that would look too suspicious. When class finally began, Hermione found herself seated next to a cheerful Ravenclaw boy named Balthazar, whose company she found surprisingly pleasant.

 

“Impressive,” he said, eyeing the beetle she had transfigured from her inkwell as it scurried across their shared table. Hermione’s eyes darted to the small bird sitting on his half of the table, which was alive, yet still had the texture of the parchment he had used. 

 

“Yours as well,” she said, but he only shrugged, tapped his wand against the bird, and watched as it flattened out into parchment again. 

 

“I could still use a little work,” he replied. “Transfiguration isn’t my strong suit.”

 

From somewhere in the classroom, there was a loud shriek, and Hermione instinctively turned her head towards Riddle’s table. She immediately saw the cause of the uproar; Tom had turned his quill into a thin, black snake, which was winding its way up some poor Hufflepuff girl’s ankle. 

 

“Mr. Riddle, if you would please –“

 

But before Dumbledore could even finish his request, Tom had transformed the snake back into a quill and was apologizing rather intently to the girl in question, who was now flushing.

 

“Honestly,” she was saying, “I wasn’t scared. Just surprised.”

 

Beside her, Balthazar snorted, causing Hermione to raise her eyebrow. 

 

“Fat chance of that,” he explained, his voice low. “I saw what her boggart turned into a few years ago: a big, black snake.” 

 

Hermione frowned, eyes narrowed at Riddle. A moment later, his eyes met hers, and he offered a polite smile. She quickly looked away, noting from the corner of her eye that Riddle was smirking as he turned back to his own table. 

 

Hermione offered to clean up their table herself, which Balthazar didn’t protest. She worked slowly, waiting until she was sure Riddle had left before gathering her things into her bag. She didn’t here Dumbledore come up to her table until he was only a few feet away.

 

“Miss Graves,” he said, causing her to jump. He ignored her apparent shock. “I was wondering if I might have a word.”

 

“Of course,” Hermione said. She watched his face closely, worried where this conversation might be going.

 

“You must understand that I am concerned about your well-being now that you are…without a family,” he said cautiously. Hermione knew he was only trying to get information out of her, and decided that, at least with Dumbledore, perhaps the Gryffindor approach was best.

 

“You mean that you’re worried I’m a spy for Grindelwald,” she said, forcing her eyes to meet his unflinchingly. He was only momentarily taken aback, before quickly casting a muffliato charm around them. When he was done casting, Hermione continued. “I’m not, though I doubt saying so will make you believe me.”

 

“I know you are lying about something, Miss Graves,” he said. “I would hope that you are not a spy, but I cannot afford to be careless.”

 

Hermione nodded. “You’re right, and if I could tell you the whole truth, I would.”

 

Dumbledore raised a brow. “I heard the most peculiar rumor….”

 

“I’m not a spy for the ministry, either,” Hermione said with a huff. “Nor am I a hit-wizard.” 

 

Dumbledore almost smiled. “I did not think you were.”

 

“I can only tell you that I’m on your side, and that revealing too much could…change the wrong things,” Hermione said, eyes pleading for him to understand what she meant. 

 

He apparently did, because immediately his blue eyes lit up. “Extraordinary,” he murmured, and then frowned. “I suppose you would not be here if there were not a need for change.”

 

She swallowed. She couldn’t exactly tell him that the student he was most suspicious of – besides her, of course – would grow up to become a raving, psychopathic, genocidal lunatic. He would likely suggest that she kill Tom instead of become his rival; he had, after all, had no problem with sending Harry to his death. She doubted Dumbledore would have any moral qualms about killing Tom either. 

 

“There are certain things that went…awry after Grindelwald’s defeat,” she said slowly.

 

“So he is defeated then,” Dumbledore said. 

 

“He’s not the problem,” Hermione said quickly. “At least, not why I’m here.” 

 

Understanding flitted across Dumbledore’s face. “Ah, the power vacuum created by his downfall.” He paused a moment. “I’m assuming you have a plan.”

 

“I’ll fill the vacuum myself,” Hermione said, not pausing to take in her professor’s surprised expression. “I would appreciate your support. My opposition for the position is influential and more dangerous than any dark wizard that has ever existed.” 

 

Dumbledore frowned, worried. “It’s Tom, isn’t it.”

 

Hermione debated for a moment whether she should deny it, but decided that Dumbledore would likely know she was lying anyway. Instead, she nodded. 

 

He sighed wearily. “You will, of course, have my full support, Miss Graves. But if things should get out of hand…”

 

Hermione flattened her lips into a thin line. “I’ll do what’s necessary, if the time comes.” 

 

“You’ll be late for your next class if you don’t hurry,” he said suddenly. “We’ll talk again, I imagine.” 

 

“Of course, sir.” She grabbed her things and hurried out the door. She froze. Leaning against the wall with practiced nonchalance, stood Tom Riddle. He looked calm, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed occasionally, as if wishing for his wand.

 

“Mr. Riddle,” Hermione said, once she had found her voice again. “I thought you would have gone to class already.”

 

He smiled, still polite, but there was a dangerous edge to it this time. Hermione glanced around the hallway, noticing they were empty and that she and Riddle were alone yet again. She doubted he would do anything while Professor Dumbledore stood only on the other side of the door, but she couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t drag her off to some abandoned classroom to torture her. 

 

“I decided to wait for you,” he said, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. “What did Professor Dumbledore want to talk to you about?”

 

Hermione’s first instinct was to tell Riddle to mind his own fucking business, but she decided that would only exacerbate his suspicion of her. 

 

“He wanted to make sure I was settling in alright,” Hermione said with a shrug. Sensing that Tom didn’t believe her, she continued, “I don’t think he likes that I was sorted into Slytherin very much.” 

 

Tom snorted, an action so genuine it took Hermione completely by surprise. “No surprise there. He’s not very fond of our house.”

 

Hermione hummed in response, still watching Riddle from the corner of her eye. He didn’t seem as tense anymore, but if he suspected that she was conspiring with Dumbledore, things would go badly for her, and very quickly. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the potions classroom, making it into the room just before class started.

 

“Ah, Tom, my boy, there you are,” a familiar voice said, and Hermione blinked at the sight of Professor Slughorn, who looked mostly unchanged from her own time. “And you must be Miss Graves, of course. So delighted to have you in Slytherin, my dear. Do take a seat. I think there’s a spot at the back there.” 

 

Hermione immediately went to the desk, grateful that at least she wouldn’t be forced to partner with Tom or, she shuddered in disgust, Malfoy, who sat preening at the front of the classroom. No, her potions partner was a tall, lanky boy with a mess of black curls and a shit-eating grin. 

 

“Fleamont Potter,” he said as soon as Hermione set her bag on the table. Hermione tried not to stare at him, but he looked so much like Harry. The only difference was that Fleamont had dark brown eyes, no glasses, and sharper cheekbones.

 

“Hermione Graves,” she replied, and was startled by his chuckle.

 

“Everyone knows who you are,” he said. His face grew serious for a moment as his eyes lingered on the silver and green tie around her neck.

 

“Got a problem with me being a Slytherin?” she asked, voice tight. 

 

He pursed his lips for a moment. “You’re friends with Adessa Prewett, right?”

 

Hermione scowled. “Yes.”

 

Fleamont’s lips quirked. “Then no. She wouldn’t like you if you were like them.” He nodded up to where Riddle and Malfoy sat.

 

Hermione raised a brow. “You don’t like Riddle?”

 

Fleamont shrugged. “Unpopular opinion, I know. But I never trust a guy with a spotless reputation. It usually means he’s got something to hide.”

 

Hermione wanted to agree with him, tell him immediately that she didn’t trust Riddle either, but she held her tongue. Just because Fleamont was a Potter didn’t mean he wasn’t in Riddle’s pocket. She couldn’t afford to trust someone she just met simply because he seemed to agree with her. 

 

Instead, she said, “Yeah, maybe.” But Fleamont seemed content, and Hermione had a feeling that her following in Gryffindor would be built in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's another quick update. I did say they'd be more frequent :)
> 
> As always, feel free to comment, criticize, etc.
> 
> <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom holds court with his knights and Abraxas pays the price for his rash behavior.

The blond boy writhed on the floor, mouth open in a soundless scream. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, a desperate attempt at keeping them away from his face, which he knew from prior experience would only put him in danger of clawing out his eyes. Instead, his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood.

 

Tom watched impassively as he finally halted the spell. Abraxas’s limbs fell to the floor, limp, face pressed to the stone floor of the heavily-warded classroom; he was just barely conscious. It was pathetic, Tom thought, that even his supposedly brilliant knights couldn’t last for more than four or five seconds under his cruciatus. He hadn’t even been trying, really. 

 

Malfoy continued to gasp for hair, saliva and blood pooling under his chin from where he had unintentionally bitten his tongue. Sweat beaded on his forehead, causing his white-blond hair to cling to his forehead. This was likely the most unattractive the boy had ever been, Tom mused. At least by conventional standards. As for himself, Tom decided he much preferred when Abraxas was weak at his feet, as opposed to the pompous prancing the boy usually did. 

 

“As many of you already know, our dearest Abraxas decided to act of his own accord last night,” Tom said, making eye contact with each of his followers. “He attacked the newest member of Slytherin, Hermione Graves, impulsively, irrationally, and without my consent.” 

 

A few of the boys shifted on their feet nervously.

 

“But that isn’t even the worst of it,” Tom said, coming to stand over the blond boy imperiously. “Is it, Abraxas?”

 

He could do little else but whimper. Tom’s lips quirked involuntarily, but he schooled his face back into a blank mask as he addressed the rest of his knights. 

 

“Miss Graves escaped with her memory intact,” Tom hissed. “And it is only through sheer luck that she was sufficiently intimidated to keep that little incident to herself.” 

 

He turned away from Malfoy and resumed his position at the front of the room. 

 

“Until further notice, Hermione Graves is off limits. No curses, no hexes, not even harmless pranks. You will act civilly towards her in public when necessary, but I want her isolated. Do what you have to do to sever her ties with other houses, specifically the Gryffindors. Dumbledore is keeping an annoyingly close eye on her, and I don’t want to risk her gaining his favor by befriending the lions, nor do I want additional attention drawn towards us.”

 

“Do you intend to recruit her, my lord?” a slender fifth-year boy, Evan Rosier, asked shakily. 

 

Normally, Tom would have cursed him for speaking out of turn, but the question made him pause. Hermione was certainly mysterious, and the fact that she had managed to escape Grindelwald’s men, well, that was enticing. But he’d seen nothing extraordinary in her spell-work, nor did she appear beyond average intelligence. And if the way she flushed pink every time he caught her looking at him was anything to go by, it would seem that Hermione was just as susceptible to his charms as any other girl in the school. Which was, in all honesty, one of the reasons he had yet to recruit a woman to his knights. No, Hermione Graves would not do at all.

 

“What use have I for her? I have no interest in silly school-girls.” 

 

Tom returned his attention to Abraxas, who was now capable of sitting upright. He sneered at the blond boy. 

 

“Now, Abraxas, let’s make sure that lesson sinks in. Crucio.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Terribly sorry for the long wait again. I know this is a short chapter, but I'm working on the next one now, and that should be up pretty soon. Get ready for Hermione putting Tom in his place (kinda). 
> 
> As always, your comments, criticisms, support, etc. always give me joy and continually inspire me to write. Thanks to everyone who is sticking with this story, and thanks to everyone who gave it a chance. I love you all tremendously :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tom finally have a confrontation. Hermione is a boss-ass bitch

Though Hermione had never enjoyed the Gryffindor parties during her own time, usually thinking them too rambunctious for her own taste, something about being in the familiar red and gold room surrounded by boisterous laughter put her at ease – more-so than she had been since before travelling to the past. She was surprisingly glad that Adessa and Fleamont had grabbed her after dinner and dragged her back to the Gryffindor common room.

 

“We need to get you out of the snake pit and into some good company,” Fleamont had said as he pushed her through the Fat Lady’s portrait. 

 

For their part, the Gryffindors had been hesitant. It wasn’t every day that a Slytherin is willingly invited – read: dragged – into their common room. Hermione had stood there, almost as nervous as she had been when Riddle was talking to her alone, while the Gryffindors glared at her. 

 

Or at least, they glared until Adessa pulled out her wand and threatened to hex them back to before Merlin’s balls were saggy. Quite a few people had spit fire-whiskey upon hearing that, but it was ultimately the accidental burst of laughter from Hermione which split the tension. She had promptly been handed a cup of her own, and paraded around by both Adessa and Fleamont until Hermione was sure there couldn’t possibly have been a Gryffindor she hadn’t met – at least not above fourth year. 

 

Which was how she ended up chatting with Adessa’s two roommates: Euphemia and Rosalind.

 

“So, Slytherin, huh?” Rosalind began. “What’s it like?”

 

Hermione thought for a moment. “It’s not what I’m used to. Everyone always says one thing, but means something else. I never know where I stand with them. I wish they’d be more straightforward.”

 

Euphemia laughed. “That’s the Slytherins for you. At least you’ve got Riddle. He’s not as prejudiced towards the other houses, and he’s the most tolerable Slytherin – aside from you that is.”

 

Hermione internally scoffed. Riddle? Not prejudiced? That was a hilarious thought.

 

“Plus, I hear he’s been walking you to all of your classes,” Rosalind said with a sly grin. “You lucky girl. Half the student population would kill to be in your shoes.”

 

“He’s just making sure I know my way, like Dippet asked,” Hermione said, mind turning a mile a minute. If what Rosalind said was true, then Hermione was going to have to watch her back. She remembered enough about petty rivalries in her own time to be sufficiently worried about stray hexes. 

 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Rosalind said, as if she didn’t believe Hermione at all. 

 

“I don’t like Riddle, if that’s what you’re implying,” Hermione said, face flushing. “And I’m sure he wants as little to do with me as possible.”

 

Rosalind laughed. “If you say so. In that case, would you mind setting us up?” 

 

“Uh…”

 

“I’m joking,” Rosalind assured her. 

 

Suddenly, Hermione felt a hand clasp firmly around her shoulder. She jerked at the sensation and instinctively pulled her wand before she could register that it was only Fleamont. He stared at the wand pointed between his eyes.

 

“Merlin, woman,” he said, hands raised defensively. He laughed nervously. “Or should I be calling you Auror Graves?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione returned her wand to the holster on her arm. “Those rumors aren’t true, you know.” 

 

Fleamont shrugged. “With that quick of a draw, you might be.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that curfew is in two minutes, so you may want to head back Slytherin. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on our behalf.”

 

Hermione cursed under her breath. The last thing she needed was to get in trouble during her first week. 

 

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said, nodding at Fleamont and then Adessa.

 

“See you tomorrow,” Adessa called as Hermione dashed into the hallway. 

 

Hermione walked – or rather, ran – as quickly and quietly as she could down to the dungeons. She still was unfamiliar with the layout of the hallways near the entrance to the Slytherin common room, but she was pretty sure she was getting close. Distantly, a clock chimed, and Hermione realized that she was officially out after curfew. She prayed that she could get back without being noticed. 

 

Just as she was about to turn a corner, she heard the distinct sound of several pairs of feet scurrying out of a classroom. She paused just out of sight, waiting. 

 

“You did well today, Abraxas,” someone said, and Hermione instantly recognized the smooth baritone as Tom. “Despite your earlier shortcomings.” 

 

“Thank you,” the blond boy mumbled. 

 

“Hurry back to the common room,” Tom ordered. “I have to complete rounds.”

 

After their footsteps had disappeared and it had been quiet for a moment, Hermione felt it was safe to continue on towards the common room. At least, as safe as she could be, considering she was pretty certain that she had accidentally stumble upon one of Riddle’s special-boy-band club meetings. She turned the corner and was halfway down the hallway when Riddle stepped out of the shadows, face impassive except for a single raised brow. 

 

“You’re out after curfew, Miss Graves,” Tom said, his voice low. “I’ll have to give you detention, I’m afraid.”

 

Hermione scowled at him. “What?”

 

“The school rules say –“

 

“That’s bullshit,” she spat out before she could think. 

 

Tom frowned at her. “Watch your language, or I’ll have to deduct house points as well.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” she said, mouth open in protest. “That only hurts your own house’s chances of winning the house cup.”

 

“I don’t bend the rules for my own house, Miss Graves,” he said. “Besides, any points you lose for us will easily be recovered by Slughorn’s generosity.”

 

“Because of his blatant favoritism, you mean.” Hermione wished she could shut her mouth, accept the detention, and move on. She knew she shouldn’t be arguing with Riddle in the middle of the hallway, alone. But the part of her that was still thoroughly Gryffindor wouldn’t let her stop.

 

Riddle narrowed his eyes. “Your Gryffindor friends are a bad influence, I see. I assume they’re the reason you’re out after curfew?”

 

Hermione mirrored his expression, fingers twitching towards her wand out of habit. “Don’t lecture me on bad influences. I assume you’re the reason all of your friends were out after curfew as well?”

 

She only had the statement half out of her mouth before he closed the gap between them, wand pressed sharply against her jugular. He pushed her slowly until her back met the wall. Hermione watched him closely, doing her best to ignore the tightness in her stomach and keep the shaking of her hands to a minimum. He might be a murderer, she told herself, but he’s not Lord Voldemort just yet. Still, his face was colder, his eyes angrier than she had ever seen.

 

“And how much of that did you hear, exactly?” he asked, his voice so soft it was barely above a whisper. 

 

“Not one bit of it,” Hermione said, surprised when her voice remained steady. “Just as you didn’t see me out of my dorm after curfew.” 

 

His eyes widened marginally. Was she really trying to blackmail him? He almost wanted to laugh. He had to admit that it was gutsy of her, but very, very foolish. To prove as much, he jabbed his wand into her throat a little harder, taking note as she barely flinched.

 

His lip curled into a sneer. “You’re out of your depths. Obliviate.”

 

The spell deflected without so much as a word from the girl. It was only then that he noticed she had somehow managed to get her wand without drawing his attention. And she had blocked him. Non-verbally. 

 

“That wasn’t very nice, Riddle,” she said, voice light despite the anger evident on her face. “I was hoping that we could discuss this like adults, but it seems that is beyond you.”

 

He jabbed his wand into her throat again, this time using his significant height in an attempt to intimidate her. “How dare you –“

 

He was cut off by the sharp press of her wand into his groin. If he hadn’t been furious with her, he might have given her some credit. Instead, he could only wonder why he hadn’t disarmed her yet.

 

“Get your wand out of my face,” she said slowly. “Unless you want me to send a reducto straight between your legs.”

 

He reluctantly backed away from her, but kept his wand leveled at her head. He noticed that she did the same. 

 

“I have no interest in dueling you,” she said.

 

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’m very interested in dueling you.” With the barest flick of his wand, he sent an unrecognizable spell her way. She blocked it almost lazily. 

 

“Not exactly Head Boy behavior, is it,” Hermione said. “Dueling is against the rules.” She deflected another one of his casual hexes. “Though I’m starting to think you don’t care for the rules as much as you’d like everyone to believe.” 

 

He shot three dark spells at her in quick succession, watching as she hastily batted them away. “How perceptive of you.” She deflected a particularly nasty curse, one which should have eaten through any basic shield charm, yet fizzled away from her with little effort on her part. Interesting. “This feels a little one-sided, don’t you agree, Miss Graves?”

 

“Indeed, Mr. Riddle. I seem to be the only one interested in a civil discussion. If you would stop throwing curses at me, perhaps we could come to an amicable agreement.” 

 

“Your proposal?” he asked. He didn’t lower his wand, but he had to admit that he was getting nowhere with physical force. If she would just fight back, he was sure he could beat her. But on her guard as she was, he wouldn’t be able to obliviate her. That would have to wait.

 

“You never saw me tonight. I’ve been in the Slytherin common room since dinner,” she said, carefully monitoring his expressions. He seemed impassive, but she was beginning to realize that that was when he was either deep in thought or at his most dangerous. Her grip on her wand tightened unconsciously. 

 

“As for my end of the bargain?” he asked.

 

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know anything about your…meeting. I was in the common room since dinner, remember?” 

 

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m supposed to take your word for it, then. Comforting.” 

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Come on, Riddle. What exactly am I going to say? ‘Oh, yes, professor, I saw Tom and his friends out after curfew. What? How did I know? Oh, because I was out after curfew too.’ See how pointless that would be?” 

 

He lowered his wand cautiously. “Just this once, Graves.” He would alter her memory later, once she lowered her guard. If she ever lowered her guard.

 

She lowered her wand, but did not tuck it away. “Thank you.” She continued down the hallway towards the portrait entry-way. 

 

He cast the memory charm at her once more, only to see the slight flourish of her wand as she deflected it, not even bothering to turn around or stop walking.

 

“Nice try, but you won’t beat me tonight,” she called out.

 

He felt himself smirking involuntarily. “Just checking.” 

 

She was good, very good. Possibly almost as good as himself. He couldn’t believe how wrong he’d been about her. But of course, she was a Slytherin, and everything she did was just an act. He wondered how much of her performance tonight had even been the real her. There was so much power lurking beneath the frizzy-haired surface. He'd just have to take it upon himself to crack her open.

 

He made a side-note to have Evan Rosier tested to see if the boy was a seer. Hermione Graves was going to get recruited.

 

\--

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

 

She was screwed. She had blown it. The image she had decided to portray, the carefully laid plans she had made. It was all gone to shit, and all because she had refused to get detention.

 

She had blackmailed a future dark lord. She might as well have tied the noose around her neck herself. 

 

If he didn’t decide to kill her, which Hermione reasoned was extremely likely given the casual way which she had dismissed him, he was going to be paying closer attention to her now. He might even try to recruit her to his knights. 

 

She had realized as soon as she stepped into the Slytherin common room that he had baited her, tossing spells at her to test her reaction time, to get a sense of her limitations. She should have let at least one hit.

 

She shouldn’t have tried to get out of detention. Hermione wanted to bash her head into a wall. Her pride had cost her the only advantage she had. There was no way he was going to leave her alone now, and to be at the center of Tom Riddle’s attention was not a place she ever wanted to be. 

 

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LONG CHAPTER (by my standards) YAY YAY YAY!!!!
> 
> I was so excited to write this, and hope you all enjoy it as much as I did. 
> 
> As always, feel free to give comments, criticisms, support, and kudos. I love hearing from you all!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising Stakes and Memory-induced Sadness

Gellert Grindelwald was not impressed.

 

“So you are telling me,” he began, lazily twirling his wand between his fingers as he looked down at the quaking form kneeling on the floor, “that you have come to me with basically nothing.”

 

“No, my lord, I would never-“

 

Gellert held up his hand, silencing his lackey. “I asked for reports on the English border. I said not to come back until you had the information that I was looking for, did I not?” 

 

“Please-“

 

“But instead, you brought me rumors from Hogwarts,” Gellert said. “Unreliable rumors, I might add.”

 

“The girl could be important. I thought you should know!”

 

Gellert sighed. “Where is the evidence, hmm? Really, do you honestly think that some school-girl is a hit wizard? Do you think one escaped child concerns me? Am I that weak to you?”

 

“No, my lord.” 

 

Gellert slashed his wand through the air, watching as his lackey screamed in agony for several minutes. 

 

“Unless you have proof that this should concern me, I don’t want to hear of the girl again. You’re dismissed.” 

-

Hermione couldn’t sleep. Every sound, no matter how slight, had her tensed and ready to fight. It was residual from the war, she knew, and heightened by her conflict with Riddle earlier. Her scars itched like they always did when she was on edge, and she couldn’t get comfortable in her all-green bed. 

 

She had tried in vain to distract herself with planning how to secure allegiances from the other houses. She had tried to figure out how to fix the errors she had made with Tom Riddle. She had tried to focus on the life she was building for herself here, in the 1940s, where everyone was a stranger and nothing was easy. 

 

But instead, her mind kept slipping back to the world she had left behind. Not that much of it was left; the war had taken everything from her. Her parents had been the first to go when she obliviated them with the knowledge that she would likely never be able to reverse the damage. Then, there had been the battle of Hogwarts where so many had died. And for what, when they didn’t even win that fight? Afterwards, they had gone on the run, using so many aliases that Hermione Granger just felt like a name she had used a long time ago, not like the person she used to be. 

 

She remembered a thousand small fights, and a hundred larger ones. She remembered the temptation of the horcruxes, how she had considered making one, just to ensure that she could keep on fighting. She remembered watching the Burrow burn to ash, having to bury the Weasleys in unmarked graves in the middle of the woods so that no one would know to dig them up and desecrate them. She remembered the flashes of green that seemed to chase them wherever they went, the helplessness she felt when Ron got hit and she couldn’t even stop running to check on him because she knew she’d be dead in an instant. 

 

And Harry, the boy who lived, didn’t even make it. The self-sacrificing bastard had jumped in front of a curse meant to kill her, right as she was finishing the runes that would have taken them both back to the 1940s. And so she had landed here, completely and utterly alone, with all of their well-laid plans gone to shit. 

 

Hermione hauled herself out of bed, wiping furiously at her red-rimmed eyes. She wouldn’t cry here, not where it could be used against her. She grabbed her beaded bag and threw a strong disillusionment charm over herself before slipping out of her dorm and tip-toeing down the stairs.

 

She found herself on the seventh floor, directly across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, pacing the floor with no specific destination in mind, just seeking comfort. A door appeared, rickety and made with rough-wood, but achingly familiar in a way that felt like a punch to the chest.

 

She walked into the living room of the Burrow, decorated exactly as she had last seen. Molly’s clock hung on the wall, and each of the pictures sat at the slot that read home. The photos, the smell, the knitting needles working furiously on a new sweater – it was all too much. She wrapped herself in the blanket on the couch and cried herself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you all for being so patient with me. I've been thinking about this story, but this past semester was hell for me. So thank you all so much for sticking with this story. I'm really going to try to update more often. 
> 
> Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was amazing. I did not make Hermione's alias in this story intentionally line up with the Auror Percival Graves in FBAWTFT but how about that... 
> 
> Anyway, please keep reviewing and sending in your support and opinions. I love to hear from you guys!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-idle threats and potentially problematic incidents.

“How, precisely, do you lose a student?” Tom asked, his voice dangerously calm. The girl across from him – a bright-eyed brunette named Vera – shook her head desperately.

 

“Please, it wasn’t my fault. She just wasn’t there when we woke up this morning.”

 

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “And you looked for her before bringing this to me, I assume?”

 

Vera nodded. “We searched the whole castle for her, or at least, everywhere we thought she was likely to be.”

 

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, but waved the girl away. It was unfortunate that Miss Graves appeared to be missing, and would be even more unfortunate if he found out that his followers had something to do with that. He turned to Abraxas, who had just taken a mouthful of toast, and pinned him with a death glare.

 

“I hope you had nothing to do with Miss Graves’ sudden and inexplicable disappearance,” he said, watching as the blonde boy flinched. Tom was pleased that the aftereffects of the cruciatus had yet to completely wear off. 

 

“No, my lord,” Malfoy said in a quiet voice. “I would not have gone against your express order.” 

 

“Would any of the others?” he asked.

 

Abraxas shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.” 

 

“Good, then keep an eye out for her. I want to know the second she makes an appearance.”

 

“I hope you’re talking about me,” a distinctly feminine voice said, one that very much did not belong to Hermione Graves. Tom turned to his right, and tried his hardest to keep his face pleasantly neutral as Caroline Cross took a seat next to him so close their thighs brushed together.

 

“Caroline, my dear, I had been hoping to see you this morning,” Tom lied. She flushed pink. 

 

“I’ll always make time for you, Tom,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. Tom sighed internally; if only she were a bit smarter and did not try quite so hard, he’d probably like her better, he thought. As it was, her very presence was dampening his mood. 

 

“But, it seems,” she continued, oblivious to his internal thoughts, “that you would not do the same for me. You’ve been awfully preoccupied with the new girl.”

 

Tom shrugged. “Dippet assigned her to me. It’s not as though I have a choice.”

 

Caroline pouted. “You didn’t have to walk her to class.”

 

Patience growing thin, Tom scowled at the girl. “Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Miss Cross. Especially when it is unfounded.” 

 

Of course, Tom thought, it was only unfounded because the Cross girl was stupid to believe she had any claim on his affections in the first place. He had admittedly been devoting a significant portion of his time to analyzing Hermione, and after last night’s decidedly tempting performance, he was determined to collect her. 

 

The easiest way would be to woo her romantically, since Tom had seen evidence that his charm could work on her. She had blushed so nicely the other day, and while he had originally thought that made her boring, his new perspective allowed him to see the advantage of her attraction to him. Yes, swaying her to his side would be simple. 

 

And once he had her firmly placed within his knights, he would simply drop the act. By then, she would be securely on his side, and devoted enough to him that his lack of romanticism wouldn’t be a deal breaker. It was brilliant, he decided. 

 

“Unfounded,” Caroline said, obviously wounded by his words. Tom couldn’t believe she was still talking about this. “If you don’t see how much your carelessness hurts me, then perhaps we’d be better off breaking up, Mr. Riddle.” 

 

He leveled her with an icy gaze. “If that’s how you feel, Miss Cross –“

 

She shrieked. Tom’s eyes widened as the girl next to him actually shrieked.

 

“She’s given you a love potion, I know,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I know. You would never be like this if she hadn’t.” Then, she stood up and hurried out of the Great Hall. 

 

Abraxas snorted. “Good riddance.” 

 

Tom couldn’t help but agree. However, Cross’s extreme reaction had drawn more attention to him than he would have liked, and so he chose to take his leave before the excessive gossiping could start. His knights dutifully stood and left the Great Hall with him.

 

He was no less than three steps into the hallway before he was accosted yet again, this time by two very angry Gryffindors. 

 

“What the bloody hell have you done with her?” 

 

Riddle, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, turned to the boy with a raised brow. “So protective already, Potter? Someone might get the wrong idea.”

 

The curly-haired boy flushed red at Tom’s insinuation. Tom’s mood dropped instantly – so maybe not the wrong idea. Hermione was very pretty in a non-conventional sort of way, Tom supposed, so it shouldn’t have surprised him that she would already have would-be suitors, but it pissed him off anyway. 

 

“Where is Hermione?” the Prewett girl asked, more calmly than her cohort, but with no less venom. 

 

Tom marveled at Miss Graves’ ability to make allies so quickly, especially ones that would happily fight for her. He could use that kind of gift, and would prefer to have her on his side, making allies for him rather than against him.

 

He shrugged. “I’m not sure, but Slytherin is taking her disappearance very seriously, and I, as head boy, am personally looking for her.”

 

“Bullshit,” Potter said. This time, Tom did roll his eyes. 

 

“Mr. Potter, I don’t know what your problem with me is, but –“

 

Adessa narrowed her eyes as she noticed Riddle’s gang not-so-subtly holding their wands. She tightened her grip on her own. 

 

“You’ll procure her within the hour,” she interrupted, earning herself a dangerous look from Riddle himself. “Or I’ll go to Dumbledore with what I know. And you can be damned sure, Riddle, that I know more than you’d like me to. Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe Hermione Graves fell down the bloody stairs?” 

 

Tom sneered. “You can’t prove anything, Prewett. You’re all talk.”

 

She grinned, and it was the most maliciously Slytherin thing he’d ever seen a Gryffindor do. He might have found some respect for the Prewett girl if she wasn’t currently threatening him.

 

“Are you willing to bet your future on that?” she asked. 

 

He wasn’t, so he decided to switch tactics.

 

“You’re assuming I even know where she is. I don’t,” Tom said.

 

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Fleamont said, wand out and pointing at Riddle’s face. Immediately, six other wands pointed back at him, one of which was Riddle’s wand, pressed into Fleamont’s gut. 

 

“I’d rethink this, if I were you,” Tom hissed. “It’s against the rules to attack a student.”

 

“Go to hell-“

 

And then Fleamont found he couldn’t speak, as did the rest of the people in the hallway. Tom’s first instinct was to fire back a spell, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything other than breathe. Panic washed over him as he considered the possibility that a professor had spotted them, which was very likely considering they were in the main hallway. 

 

But then a very angry Hermione Graves came into view, looking like death. Her face was slightly puffy, her eyes bloodshot, with dark circles underneath. So she hadn’t slept last night, and she’d been crying. For some reason, Tom realized that it struck him as absolutely absurd that Hermione Graves cried over anything. But then again, she was a woman.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her voice croaking unpleasantly. 

 

Tom realized they could move again only because he watched Adessa fling herself into the other girl’s arms. He watched as Hermione tensed at the contact, but allowed it. 

 

“Thank Merlin you’re alright,” Adessa said, smoothing Hermione’s hair back. “We were so worried –“

 

“That you attacked my housemates?” Hermione asked. There was no humor to her voice, just cold disapproval. 

 

“We thought they had hurt you,” Fleamont said.

 

“Then find proof and take it to a professor,” she said. “This could have ended badly for everyone.” 

 

“Miss Graves –“ Tom started, but he was instantly cut off by the burning hatred in her eyes. 

 

“I am not in the mood to humor your excuses, Mr. Riddle. You’re the head boy. Act like it,” she snapped, then turned on her heel and stalked off towards class, leaving her friends and housemates dumbfounded. 

 

Adessa and Fleamont turned to leave as well, but Riddle caught the Prewett girl by the arm. 

 

“I don’t appreciate being threatened, Miss Prewett,” he said, low so only she could hear. “Consider that your only warning.”

 

She paled, but continued to glare back at him. “Consider that yours,” she said before wrenching herself from his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you lucky ducks, getting two updates in one night. Be warned, I already have chapter 14 pretty much done, so expect it sometime this week. 
> 
> In the meantime, please feel free to let me know your thoughts, opinions, and hopes for this fic. I'd love to hear from you all!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to escalate and Hermione keeps toeing the line of safety.

“Miss Graves, a word after class, please.”

 

Professor Dumbledore’s kind, twinkling eyes bore into her red-rimmed ones. She nodded. Tom shot her a concerned look as he left, and Hermione knew he would be waiting for her outside. She sighed. He was the last person she wanted to talk to right now. 

 

“You look decidedly unwell,” Dumbledore said as soon as everyone had left and he had cast a muffling charm. “I hope your housemates are not causing you too much trouble. Miss Prewett has alerted me to the fact that some of them might wish to cause you harm.”

 

Despite her current annoyance with her Gryffindor friends, Hermione allowed herself a small smile. It was nice, if sometimes inconvenient, to have people looking out for her again.

 

“I’m fine, Professor. I’m just having a difficult time adjusting,” she said. 

 

He nodded in understanding. “I imagine you have lost much, since you determined this venture a worthwhile sacrifice. If there is anything I can do…”

 

“Thank you, Professor.”

 

“In fact, I believe I’ll write you a pass for the rest of the day. You certainly won’t be missing anything by taking a day of rest,” he said. 

 

Hermione sighed in relief. The old her would have groaned at being told to miss class, but time and war had changed her, and the things she once thought were important seemed less so now. Besides, she wasn’t going to miss out on an opportunity to avoid Riddle for the rest of the day.

 

“Thank you, sir.” She took the pass.

 

“And Hermione,” Dumbledore called. “I’m sure Madame Pomfrey would gladly give you some dreamless sleep, should you ask.”

 

Hermione nodded and slipped out the door. As predicted, Tom Riddle stood waiting. 

 

“Are these after-class talks becoming a habit, then?” he asked icily. She was not surprised that his suspicion was back. After last night, and then this morning, he likely thought she was reporting him. 

 

“I certainly hope not,” Hermione grumbled, doing her best to sound honest.

 

Tom sighed. “We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late to Potions.”

 

“I’m not going,” Hermione said, holding up her pass. 

 

“Good,” Tom said, and Hermione only had a moment to process how horribly wrong her morning seemed to be going before he pushed her into an empty classroom and locked the door. 

 

Fear wriggled unpleasantly in Hermione’s stomach. He’s not Lord Voldemort yet, she reminded herself. She knew, logically, that he couldn’t do any permanent damage to her, not with Dumbledore watching so closely. But still…

 

“Where were you this morning?” he asked, all pretense of pleasantry gone. 

 

“Out,” she said casually. “Doing things.” 

 

“Graves, I won’t ask again.”

 

“You have unsuccessfully threatened me twice, so far. Where I was this morning is none of your business, Riddle,” she said, allowing her tiredness to seep into her voice while she thought. Inside, she was fuming, but showing that, showing him any sign of weakness would never do her any good. 

 

She would never have his pity, would never be able to get him on the moral side of things. He was never going to cut her a break. Playing as his enemy wasn’t going to work here either, and in an almost Einstein-like moment of clarity, she realized that posing as his ally might – for the time being at least – give her enough clout to keep her head above the water until she had enough support to break free from him. But she’d have to be his ally in the least conventional way possible.

 

Before he could do anything, she continued. “Look, if it had anything to do with you, I would tell you.”

 

He scoffed. “I don’t believe that.” 

 

She shrugged. “I may not like you much, Riddle, but I’m not an idiot. You’re the biggest fish in the pond around here, so to speak. I’d have to be pretty stupid to actively go against you, wouldn’t I?”

 

She paused for effect, eying him as he thought this over.

 

“Do you think I’m stupid, Tom?” she asked. Her wand was out, but held in the least threatening – yet still accessible – way possible. 

 

He met her gaze head-on and she felt a slight prodding at her mind. She strengthened her occlumency shields, watching in satisfaction as he failed to breach her defenses. 

 

“I’m asking you to trust me,” she said. 

 

“I don’t,” he countered, twirling his wand between his fingers.

 

“You don’t what? Think I’m stupid, or trust me?” she asked.

 

“Either.”

 

She laughed, cold and dark and bitter. “Smart boy.” Lightning fast, she pressed her wand into the soft flesh of his jugular. 

 

“But Tom, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” she said, all traces of humor gone from her voice, yet still unnervingly calm. “If I wanted you ruined, you’d be ruined.” She took a step back from him, lowering her wand. “I’m not a particularly patient person, Riddle. If I haven’t struck you down yet, it’s because I don’t want to. Don’t give me a reason.”

 

She walked out of the classroom, leaving him wondering how she once again managed to get the upper hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make you all wait until Friday, but I honestly couldn't help myself. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I did, despite the fact that it's a little short-ish. 
> 
> And yes, we will be seeing a growing darkness in Tom in the coming chapters, and he won't always be bested so easily, and it won't always feel like Hermione is untouchable. Trust me. Things will be escalating. 
> 
> ANYWAY, please always feel free to leave a comment. They inspire me to write more and faster. Much love <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, and alliances, and plotting, oh my!
> 
> Plus, is Tom Riddle *gasp* distracted?

“If I wanted you ruined, you’d be ruined.”

 

Tom woke from a particularly…heated dream, Hermione’s words from the previous morning echoing in his head. He should have been furious that she had dared to threaten him – Merlin knows if anyone else had, they’d have already met the bad end of his wand. Instead, he was left physically inconvenienced and in need of a cold shower. 

 

He scowled. Caroline Cross – even with her valiant (if disturbing and unwanted) attempts to seduce him – had never interested him even half so much as a single line from Hermione, and hers had been spoken as a threat. He felt juvenile, like a boy barely on the brink of puberty who hadn’t yet figured out how to master his, well, newfound dilemmas. Frankly, Tom was disgusted with himself for being so pathetic. 

 

The cold shower helped. Marginally.

 

Of course, any progress he’d made was completely undone when he saw her sitting at her usual spot for breakfast, wild curls piled high and held in place with her wand, sipping coffee slowly as she read the Daily Prophet. Logically, he knew that she looked no more exceptional than she had the day before, yet the very sight of her sent a thrill through him. 

 

He cursed himself for reacting like a school-boy again. He was a rising dark lord, for Merlin’s sake. He could not, and would not, fall prey to the charms of a woman, no matter how dangerous and gifted and rightly pretty she was. He scowled. Perhaps Cross was right. Perhaps Hermione had drugged him with something. 

 

He took a seat that was farther away from her than usual, leaving Abraxas to flounder as he was forced to sit in between Tom and Hermione. The girl, despite her previous run-in with the blonde, smiled pleasantly in greeting before returning to the paper, an action which seemed to confuse Tom’s right-hand man. 

 

Hermione noticed Abraxas’s confusion with some amusement, hiding her smirk behind the rim of her coffee cup. She had decided after yesterday’s encounter with Riddle that she could no longer pretend to be intimidated. She had played her hand – if she wanted him to treat her differently than his followers, she had to present herself as his equal. She would never be safe from him if he continued to think that she could be hushed with a few stinging hexes and minor name-calling. 

 

Still, it bothered her that her plans were shifting on a daily basis. At the beginning of the week, she had planned to steer clear of Riddle altogether. Two days ago, she had hoped to be so utterly boring that he would lose interest. Now she was vying for his respect. Hermione would be lying if she said she wasn’t flying by the seat of her pants. 

 

She had no desire to join him in his conquest for world domination, though. There was nothing he could offer her, no price quite high enough to sway her to his side. She would continue to build relationships outside of Slytherin, gather a following of her own. Hermione knew she’d have to be subtle; Tom Riddle would certainly not abide any opposition, any direct threat to his carefully established power structure. No, she’d have to do it so casually, so quietly, so seemingly-unintentionally that Riddle wouldn’t know what had hit him. 

 

It might take her years to accomplish that, but she figured that his reign of terror hadn’t reached its peak until the 70s, so she had a little bit of time to gain influence herself. Not that she would let it get that far. 

 

Hermione stood, shouldering her bag. It was funny, she thought, to be plotting Lord Voldemort’s demise over breakfast as she had so often done with Harry and Ron. The thought of her two boys sent a pang of homesickness – or was it nostalgia now – through her. Having a good cry over everything, and everyone, she had lost had mostly emptied her of tears, something she was grateful for as she felt the weight of her schoolbag lift from her shoulder. Abraxas Malfoy, of all people, was now carrying her bag.

 

She frowned at him, but he merely offered her his arm. Hermione’s eyes flickered briefly to Tom, who seemed to be paying her no attention, yet she was sure he was just as observant as ever. She was even surer that it was upon his orders that Malfoy was now being so pleasant towards her. In order to avoid making a scene, she took Malfoy’s proffered arm and leaned against him to hide the way her wand dug into the side of his ribcage. 

 

Once they were alone in the hallway, Hermione removed herself from his person, silently summoning her bag from his shoulder, and pinned him with a glare. To his credit, he met her gaze unflinchingly. 

 

“Tom wanted me to escort you to class, as he was unable to himself,” Abraxas said by way of explanation. 

 

“I am perfectly capable of walking myself to class, thank you,” Hermione said. “You can tell Mr. Riddle that I will not be requiring his assistance, or that of his friends, in the future.” 

 

Abraxas looked pained for a moment. “I’m afraid I can’t permit that. These halls can be dangerous to those unacquainted with them.” 

 

Hermione let out a bitter laugh, the sound of it seeming to startle the blond-haired boy. “Dangers like you, perhaps. I assure you I won’t be caught so off-guard again.”

 

“Ah. I believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

 

“You attempted – rather pathetically, I might add – to torture me into submission. I wouldn’t call that just a rough start.” 

 

“I’m truly sorry for the pain I have caused-“

 

Hermione silenced him with a twitch of her wand. “Don’t pander to me, Malfoy. I have no interest in your forced apologies. Riddle has undoubtedly ordered you to be civil to me – don’t think I don’t see how you admire him. You’d do anything he asked, even suck up to half-blood filth like me, wouldn’t you?”

 

“You don’t know anything,” Abraxas spat, his mask of civility slipping yet again as he raised his wand to her. 

 

Hermione laughed again, hair crackling with magic. “Oh?” She stepped towards him, wand aimed steadily at the boy’s throat. “I know that you can’t help but watch him whenever he’s in the room. I know that you’re always by his side, always leaning in, hoping for a scrap of attention. I know that it’ll never be enough, no matter how much he praises your skill, no matter how many times he tells you that you’re his closest friend. It’s not quite friendship that you want, is it?”

 

Hermione watched Abraxas’s face turn bright red, though from anger or embarrassment, she couldn’t say. She wasn’t sure why she had provoked him like this, only that the words had spilled out of her like a broken faucet. Perhaps, she mused, the Malfoys were designed to always bring out the worst in her. 

 

“Tom will never believe you.”

 

It was a pathetic attempt to discredit her, a show of weakness more than anything else. Hermione wanted to clap herself on the back. Now, she thought, time to make the most out of an opportunity. She forced her features to soften and lowered her wand. 

 

“I won’t reveal your secrets, so long as you remain an ally of mine,” she said. 

 

He sneered. “I’d never betray Tom.”

 

Hermione sighed. “I’m not asking you to. I am new here, and while my acquaintances in other houses have been…helpful, I would like to have a friendly face in Slytherin. I have a feeling that not many of my housemates are pleased that I am here.”

 

Abraxas eyed her warily, his mind flickering to the mission Tom had given all of the knights only a few days ago: isolate the girl, make her reliant upon Tom and his network within Slytherin. He could see why Tom sought to bring her close – after all, one could not abide the intermingling of houses when the Slytherin reputation was at stake. But aside from that, Hermione Graves appeared to have a peculiar knack for accumulating allies, though he suspected she did not have to blackmail her precious Gryffindors for their friendship. Besides, getting close to Hermione would give him better access to her habits and quirks, things he could later relay to his Lord that might be useful in manipulating her. She was a half-blood, Abraxas reminded himself; his reputation would take a slight hit, but that would be repaired when his Lord rose to power, Abraxas faithfully by his side. 

 

“I’d say we have a deal, then,” he said, stepping close to Hermione once again as they proceeded to walk to class.

-

Hermione sat in Arithmancy, watching Abraxas and Tom from the corner of her eye. Neither of them had attempted to sit with her, and Riddle seemed particularly keen to avoid her. She doubted it was because he was intimidated from their confrontation yesterday, but could not fathom any other reason for his behavior. She was surprised to find that he seemed so indecisive – one moment shoving her into abandoned classrooms, and ignoring her existence entirely the next. If he could just pick one, she could plan around him, but his inconsistent behavior was giving her whiplash. 

 

Must be the horcruxes, she mused. Riddle already had two of them: the diary and the Gaunt ring. Even from this distance, she could see the hideous black stone gleaming on his finger, a constant reminder of the murderer lurking beneath the shiny veneer.

 

Abraxas’s behavior, though, she could not account for. Their new tentative alliance was bizarre to her, though she had been the one to suggest it. Still, he had been civil towards her, if not a little cold. She did not trust him – he could never be her confidant or even a true friend – but his standing in the Slytherin hierarchy would give her enough leverage to be secure in her own house. Hermione frowned, wondering if all Slytherin friendships were built on such judicious principles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for the long wait. With finals, and being in a play, and working on my own original book, this story took the backseat for a while. This chapter is not my fav, but I wanted to give you all a little something to hold you over until I can write the next chapter. I'll be honest, I haven't really planned this fic out, so much like Hermione, I'm flying by the seat of my pants.
> 
> As always, feel free to kudos, comment, etc. I love hearing from all of you, and getting reviews this past week encouraged me to post a chapter. 
> 
> Much love <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione isn't on top of her game. Tom gets even.

Tom had avoided the Graves girl all day, more for the sake of his own sanity than anything else. His knights had noticed that he was in one of his moods, and had made the good decision to steer clear of him as well, only talking to him when absolutely necessary for classes. Even Abraxas had elected not to make a report to him after walking Hermione – no, Miss Graves – to class. 

 

But just because he had not talked to her or talked about her did not mean the girl was out of his mind. On the contrary, Hermione – Miss Graves, he sternly reminded himself – was in his thoughts more than ever. It seemed like he had been able to feel her magic everywhere in the castle. It was distracting. He had even failed to answer a question correctly in Divination – the only class Hermione Graves didn’t have with him. 

 

Tom knew that half the problem was not the girl herself, but the fact that she seemed capable of outplaying him. It was throwing him off balance. He needed to reestablish his authority, show her who she was really dealing with. So far she had only seen glimpses of his true self. Perhaps Miss Graves just needed to be properly…educated. He had been thinking of the different ways he might educate her all day. 

 

The cruciatus was an appealing option; it would show not only his power, but also that he was untouchable. Even Dumbledore, supposedly the most powerful wizard in the world, couldn’t stop him. It would send the right message to be sure, but it wasn’t very original. Tom was sure he could do better. Maybe something with snakes…

 

As he turned the corner, he saw a familiar head of bushy hair disappearing into the library. He checked the time – fifteen minutes until curfew – and shook his head in exasperation. The girl was as bookish as the Ravenclaws. He entered the library himself, nodding at Madame Pince. The rest of the library was empty and Tom grinned. It seemed that he’d been gifted the perfect opportunity. 

 

He found Hermione in a back corner, being followed by a small stack of floating books. She was completely engrossed in searching for the right tome, and she certainly wasn’t aware of Tom. With the flick of his wand, he set up privacy charms. It wouldn’t do to have Madame Pince stumbling upon them. 

 

Feeling the shift in the air, Hermione spun on her heel, wand leveled with Tom’s throat. He was ready though, and disarmed her before she even had the chance to recognize that it was him. He caught her wand easily and spun it around, testing the weight of it. The magic that thrummed within it seemed to hiss at him, clearly unhappy that it had been separated from its proper owner. It was a bit of a letdown, Tom thought, that the wand seemed so intent on rejecting him; he had hoped that by swaying its allegiance, he might be able to guarantee that it would not be able to severely harm him, regardless of Hermione’s future efforts. 

 

“Riddle,” Hermione said warily. “Give me my wand.” 

 

“I think not. I can’t have you hexing me while I’m trying to talk to you, now can I?” He flashed her his most charming grin, but she only narrowed her eyes further. 

 

“I thought we were past this,” she said. Hermione’s mind was moving too fast for her to make sense of half the plans that ran through it. Tom had her wand, and they were essentially alone in the library. The only distinct thought she could process was that this was really, really not good. 

 

“You seem to be under the rather misinformed impression that you get to set the terms of our…acquaintance.” Tom advanced on her, noting with some amusement that for every step he moved forward, she took one back. The panic that flashed across her pretty face as her back brushed against a bookcase was brief, but satisfying. 

 

“Riddle, if you so much as –“

 

“Hermione, dear, you’re not in a position to make threats,” he said as the tip of his wand jabbed against her throat. “You’ve gotten away with far too much of that already.” He stepped closer, not bothering to hide his smirk as she tried to press herself further into the bookcase. 

 

Hermione was doing her best not to be terrified. She kept repeating over and over in her head, “He’s not Voldemort yet. He’s not Voldemort yet.” It wasn’t helping too terribly much. She knew he was getting some sort of sadistic satisfaction out of her fear, and that was enough to make her angry, but not enough to make her forget the wand pressed firmly against her throat. She was sure it would bruise tomorrow – if she lived that long. 

 

“No cheek, then?” Tom asked, his voice almost teasing. “It appears you can be taught some manners after all.” 

 

“What do you want, Riddle?” she ground out. She noticed that he had not bothered to bind her in any way, seeming to prefer using only his towering physical presence to intimidate her. Knowing that her hands were still free – that she could possibly fight Tom the muggle way if she had to – calmed her enough to stop herself from hyperventilating. He was bigger than her, but she would bet that he knew less about hand-to-hand combat than she did. Not that it would do her much good since he still had her wand.

 

“You’re quite the little problem for me,” Tom said softly. He trailed the tip of his wand along the curve of her face.

 

“I think you’ll find that, if you really think about it, I’ve reacted defensively to your attacks on me. So if anyone is a problem, Riddle, it’s you.” Hermione glared at him. How dare he blame his aggressions on her?

 

A stinging hex cracked across her cheek, and Hermione hissed in pain. 

 

“You show up in the middle of the night covered in life-threatening wounds – which I had to heal some of just so you wouldn’t die on the doorstep, thank you very much – you try to blackmail me into not giving you detention for being out after hours, and you had me at wand-point twice now,” Tom said. Hermione raised a brow.

 

“You’ve had me at wand-point twice now as well, so I’d say we’re even there,” she snapped. “And the first one was hardly my fault. It’s not as if I called up Grindelwald personally and said, oh hey, I’d like for you to come kill my entire family, but please leave me to escape to Hogwarts so I can mildly inconvenience some prat Head Boy I’ve never met before.”

 

Tom grudgingly had to admit that she had a point. “And the blackmail?” Tom asked through gritted teeth.

 

“I’d hardly call it that,” Hermione said, still seething. “We came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. And might I point out that you attempted to lure me into a duel – which is against the rules – and obliviate me – which is against the law. So again, Riddle, you don’t exactly have the moral high ground.” 

 

“Who said anything about the moral high ground?” he sneered. “But while we’re nitpicking, why don’t we talk about your obnoxious Gryffindor friends trying to defame me in the hallways by claiming I kidnapped you? Or even the fact that you were missing? That was a massive inconvenience.”

 

“Maybe if you minded your own fucking business –“ Hermione clutched at her throat as the air was ripped from her lungs. She gasped for air, but none would come.

 

“Watch your language,” Tom hissed. He cupped her face, trying to ignore her unreasonably soft skin. “Now pay attention, Hermione, because I will only say this once. Do not challenge me again. Your place is beneath me.” 

 

Unbidden, several images flashed through his head of the different ways that Hermione could be beneath him. He shoved the thoughts out of the way, refusing to let them cloud his judgment. He released the spell, letting her breathe once more. 

 

Hermione gulped down hair. If she hadn’t been so focused on survival, she might have throttled the smug-looking boy in front of her. Some other time, she thought. Preferably when she had the advantage again. 

 

“Hermione,” Tom said, his voice deceptively soft. She was not foolish enough to think that the danger was over yet. “Do we understand each other?”

 

“Yes,” she rasped, her throat still dry and achy. His thumb dragged across her cheek and down her lips before seeking purchase in her hair. Tightening his grip, he yanked her closer until they were nose to nose. For one horrified moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.

 

“If you fail to take this warning to heart, Hermione, your Gryffindor friends will be the first to suffer, and you can be certain I won’t go easy on them,” he said. Hermione shivered, whether from the threat or the sensation of his breath against her skin, Tom couldn’t be sure. “Is that clear?” 

 

“Yes.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed her answer.

 

“Good girl,” he murmured. He loosened his grip on her, brushing over her skin in an almost gentle manner. “I hope there won’t be a need for this kind of unpleasantness again.”

 

Liar, Hermione thought. It was a power trip for him – she could see that he reveled in her pain, her fear. She was careful to keep her anger out of his sight. It was better to let him think he’d beaten her down for now. She was a Slytherin, Hermione reminded herself, and she would play the part Tom wanted her to play for as long as it took to take him out of the competition. 

 

“Curfew is in five minutes,” Tom said, finally stepping away from her. “I’ll walk you down to the common room.” He held out his arm for her to take.

 

She took his arm reluctantly and let him lead her out of the library, forgetting all about the books she had wanted to get. They walked in silence.

 

“Goodnight, Miss Graves,” Tom said as they stood outside the portrait. He started to walk away towards the Head dorms. 

 

“My wand, Riddle,” Hermione said. Tom turned to her with a smirk.

 

“I think I’ll hold onto it for now,” he replied before turning back around. “Goodnight.”

 

Hermione stared daggers at his retreating form, caught somewhere between wanting to scream and wanting to sleep it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SORRY for the long wait. But after several requests for a new chapter, I have finally overcome my writer's block long enough to crank this one out. I've also got a rough outline for the next 6-7 chapters, so hopefully I won't take as long uploading those. No promises though. 
> 
> I've also been thinking about starting up a tumblr blog specific to Harry Potter-ish stuff (especially regarding Tom Riddle because I both love and hate the bastard). Not sure yet if I want to spend time doing that or if anyone would really even be interested in seeing that happen. But if I do set one up, then I'll probably start taking requests for fics. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comment. I love, love, love hearing from you guys.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Lots of love <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff happens in this one. Hermione denies rumors, Tom muses over the benefits of his knights, and then BAM! Someone gets hurt, threats are made, and once again, two forces stand in opposition.

Hermione was frustrated. Thrice in the past half-hour had she been subjected to petty attacks by Ravenclaws, including having her stool ripped out from under her as she had gone to sit down. She had landed squarely on her ass, much to the amusement of both the Ravenclaws and the Slytherins. She was not sure which annoyed her more: the stifled cackling of the Ravenclaw girls or the smug amusement of Tom Riddle as he smirked down at her.

 

 

“It’s because of Caroline Cross,” Balthazar had whispered to her after helping her back into her seat just as Dumbledore entered the room. “She’s convinced her seventh year friends that you’re intentionally taking Riddle away from her.”

 

 

And now her inkwell had spilled all over the page of notes she had just taken. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the snickering girls at the table to her right were to blame.

 

 

“You’d think they’d be a bit cleverer in their approach,” Hermione mumbled as she flicked her newly-acquire wand under the table. The spell only worked well enough to clear the mess, but her notes weren’t salvageable. She sighed tiredly; it wasn’t as if she didn’t already know the material anyway.

 

 

If Balthazar noticed that her wand was different, he didn’t comment. It was just as well; Hermione didn’t want Riddle knowing that she’d found a replacement for the wand he’d stolen off her last night. She had crept out of the Slytherin dorm sometime after midnight, unable to sleep without the familiar vine-wood by her side, and went to the Room of Requirement in search of a temporary replacement. There had been several to choose from, though none of them felt as comfortable as her original. She had eventually settled on a 13” ebony wand, with what she suspected was a dragon heartstring, though she couldn’t be certain without further investigation. It resisted her the least out of all of them, and a brief foray into wand-lore had somewhat reassured her that she could get used to this new wand given time.

 

 

Still, she had been grateful that Transfiguration today was focused on theory rather than application. She hadn’t practiced much with the ebony wand and, as evident by the imperfect cleaning spell, there was still work to be done before it obeyed her completely. Not that she planned on needing it – Hermione wanted her original wand back as soon as possible, even if she had to cut Riddle’s hand off to get it – but if there was one thing she had learned from the war, it was that having a backup wand was always a good idea.

 

 

“So, are you?”

 

 

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t realized that Balthazar was talking to her.

 

 

“Sorry, what was that?”

 

 

He rolled his eyes at her, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Are you dating Riddle? That’s what people are saying.”

 

 

“What?” Hermione hissed, eyes narrowing. “Who’s saying that?”

 

 

Balthazar seemed to be fighting off a full-on grin. “Most of Ravenclaw – probably because of Caroline – and a few Gryffindors seem to think so too.”

 

 

“Who specifically?” she asked through gritted teeth. Before Balthazar could answer, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Ugh. That’s unbelievable.”

 

 

“No truth to the rumors, then, I’m guessing,” he said. “Not that I’m surprised, mind you. But he does seem quite…intense when it comes to you. He’s been walking you to most of your classes, talking to you even. And he’s moody whenever you’re not around. It’s more than he usually does.”

 

 

Hermione massaged her temples, doing her best to fight off an oncoming headache.

 

 

“If it makes you feel better, Hufflepuff is reserving judgment until they hear it from either yourself or Riddle,” Balthazar said with a shrug. “And Slytherin has been, unsurprisingly, hush-hush about it.”

 

 

Hermione frowned at him. “How do you know all of this?”

 

 

Balthazar grinned. “Ravenclaws are quiet and almost as unnoticeable as Hufflepuffs. People talk. I listen.”

 

 

“Very Slytherin of you. Are you sure you’re in the right house?” she teased. He pushed her shoulder lightly, rolling his eyes again.

 

 

“If I was Slytherin, I wouldn’t have told you,” Balthazar pointed out. “Knowledge for the sake of knowledge – not power – is a Ravenclaw trait.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tom was frustrated. He had spent hours trying to persuade Hermione’s wand to work for him the night before. It was a fruitless effort; though the wand would cast the spells he commanded, they were weak, slow, and largely ineffective. Even a simple levitating charm took more effort than usual, and the inkwell he had tested it on had shattered when he tried to put more force behind the spell.

 

 

He had never had much interest in wand-lore before, but after reading about vine-wood, he decided it was a load of rubbish. As if he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin and rising Dark Lord, wasn’t bloody complex enough, as if he didn’t have a grand enough purpose, to wield a vine-wood wand. He had, in a fit of anger, singed the edges of the book on wand-lore.

 

 

To top it all off, he expected Hermione to seek him out first thing in the morning to demand her wand back. She would need it for classes and such, and Tom was sure that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to go around Hogwarts without it. And yet, she had been absent at breakfast – had apparently been absent all morning. Her disappearing acts were infuriating, and Tom was determined to figure out where she was running off to. Although, if that endeavor went as well as making her wand work for him was going, it would be a lot more difficult than he expected.

 

 

On the plus side, Hermione Graves had been intimidated to his satisfaction in the library, although he was far from done with her. He had planned on talking to her after Transfiguration – taunting her with her own wand would have been enjoyable – but she had slipped off again. Even her quiet Ravenclaw friend had no idea where she’d gone. And now she was missing lunch too.

 

 

“Abraxas.” Tom’s voice was quiet enough to be lost to the din of the Great Hall, but the blond boy snapped to attention anyway. “Find out where Miss Graves disappears to, if you can. Get the others to assist you.”

 

 

Abraxas looked like he was going to say something, but decided against it. Instead, he nodded and leaned over to the dark-haired boy next to him: Antonin Dolohov, a ruthless, bloodthirsty young man with a prominent wizarding name and a distinct lack of morals. He was one of the best duelers, only second to Tom, and his penchant for prolonging pain rather than going for a more instantaneous defeat made him invaluable to Tom’s Knights. What Dolohov lacked in subtlety, he more than made up for in raw power and relentlessness.

 

 

Tom watched his two knights leave the table, satisfied with how willingly they followed his orders. He idly wondered how far he could push them before they hesitated. He suspected that some, like Mulciber and Avery, would never do more than was absolutely required of them. Rosier was perhaps too opinionated, but he was only a 5th year – there was still time to teach him his place – and if he had any prophetic abilities whatsoever, like Tom suspected, then he would be valuable regardless of what he was and wasn’t willing to do. Dolohov and Lestrange were there for blood; they craved violence. Tom figured the only thing he couldn’t reasonably expect from either of the two boys was restraint. He simply wouldn’t send them on missions that required finesse, then.

 

 

Abraxas, though, was an interesting case. He could be violent when necessary, but never showed a particular interest in causing pain. He was painstakingly loyal, though for what benefit, Tom was unsure. Abraxas already had fortune, title, and a good wizarding name. He was intelligent and political savvy, enough so that he could climb the social and political latter without Tom’s help. He was well-liked by the pureblood circles and had absolutely nothing to prove. It really seemed as though Abraxas had nothing to personally gain by allying himself with Tom so closely, and yet Tom couldn’t figure out a single other reason the Malfoy heir would stoop to being one of his followers – his most dedicated follower, even. Tom was almost certain that there was nothing Abraxas wouldn’t do for him, and he was interested in testing that theory.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione was reconsidering her decision not to kill Tom as she entered the Defense classroom, followed not-so-discretely by Antonin Dolohov. She had encountered the Russian boy halfway to class and had barely resisted the urge to curse him on the spot. The scar across her torso twinged at the mere sight of him, unpleasant memories of the Department of Mysteries surfacing.

 

 

It was lucky that he hadn’t seen her leaving the Room of Requirement at least. She had elected to skip lunch in an attempt to get accustomed to her new wand since she didn’t see a way of getting her original one back before class. It had gone better than expected, though she had noticed it seemed to respond best the harder she pushed her magic. If wand-lore was to be believed, the ebony wand would suit her well in combat, and her practice seemed to confirm that. The more she used it, the more she liked it, but she still didn’t want to have to duel with it. She was used to the feeling of her old wand, and even if this one wasn’t unpleasant, it was different.

 

 

Tom caught her eye and smirked, though his eyes seemed more irritated than smug. Hermione grit her teeth; he had probably expected her to come running to him, begging to get her wand back. Maybe first-year Hermione Granger would have done that, would have complained that it wasn’t fair, or run to a teacher for help. But she was post-war Hermione now. She had brewed illegal polyjuice potion, baited a werewolf, started the DA, handed a woman over to be brutally traumatized by centaurs, robbed a bank and flown away on the back of a dragon. She was willing to bet money that she had fired more killing curses than Tom had at this age. A young Voldemort shouldn’t scare her, as long as she remembered who she was and what she could do.

 

 

The ebony wand – carefully tucked away in her arm holster – seemed to thrum in agreement with her thoughts.

 

 

“Today, we’ll be practicing non-verbal spells,” Professor Galatea Merrythought said as she glided into the classroom. “Pair up. You will both be attempting to disarm each other – a toned-down duel, if you will. Let me stress that you are not to cause severe or permanent damage to your opponent.” The woman paused to look specifically at Dolohov.  “This is not the dueling club, ladies and gentlemen, so do take it easy on each other.”

 

 

Hermione instantly gravitated to Fleamont, who grinned brightly at her approach.

 

 

“I thought you’d pick a Slytherin,” he said. “Seems like they did too.”

 

 

Hermione looked over and noticed that she was receiving a death glare from Tom Riddle himself, and a handful of suspicious looks from the others. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Fleamont.

 

 

“I like to stir the pot every now and again,” she said, giving him a conspiratorial wink. Fleamont laughed.

 

 

“That seems to be all you do,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining.”

 

 

They volleyed spells back and forth. Hermione tried to go easy on the boy, knowing that she could take down fully-grown dark wizards in her own time, but she was surprised – and a bit irritated – when she noticed that he seemed to be going easy on her as well. Fleamont was capable of non-verbal spellwork, but Hermione barely had to try to deflect them. Of course, she’d been doing non-verbal spells for ages, so she knew she had the advantage, but she could tell he was holding back. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was a woman, or because she was his friend.

 

 

“Come on, Potter,” she called, enjoying the startled look he gave her. “Is that all you’ve got?”

 

 

“’Course not, Graves,” he shouted back as he fired off a more powerful stunning spell, which she dodged rather than block. “I was just waiting for you to warm up.”

 

 

The banter was painfully familiar, and for a moment, Hermione was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. It felt like she was back in the DA all over again. She fired off two spells in quick succession: an expelliarmus to keep him occupied while she conjured a flock of birds. With a flick of her wand, she sent the birds after Fleamont, laughing as several of them tried to nest in his hair.

 

 

And then it felt like time slowed. Hermione watched in horror as a jet of purple light rushed towards Fleamont’s head. She didn’t think, didn’t bother to consider where it came from, didn’t bother to shout a warning. Seven years of protecting a bespectacled, messy-haired boy flashed before her eyes and her panic was tangible on the back of her tongue. Her shield charm was cast before the thought even processed in her brain – all muscle memory, instinct.

 

 

It wasn’t quite fast enough. The unidentified spell was mostly blocked, but the edge of it skimmed the back of Fleamont’s neck. The boy crumpled with a scream. Hermione, still on autopilot, was by his side in an instant, the birds she had previously conjured swarming angrily around her head.

 

 

“Whose spell was that?” Professor Merrythought called, voice stern, as she hurried over to Fleamont. By the time the woman got there, Hermione was already running as many diagnostic spells as she could remember. Fleamont was unconscious.

 

 

“I’m afraid it’s my fault, Professor,” Tom said, looking worried. “I deflected Antonin’s spell, but it went off and…” He trailed off.

 

 

Hermione’s anger bubbled just under the surface, but she focused her energy on the unconscious boy in front of her. She had never been proficient at healing spells, but she knew enough to put a stasis charm on him while she checked for serious injuries. None of his bones were broken, which was a relief, but she also couldn’t figure out why he was unconscious, and that was concerning her.

 

 

“Miss Graves,” Professor Merrythought said gently. She put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, noting with concern that the girl flinched away from the touch. “Hermione, dear…”

 

 

“He needs to go to the hospital wing,” Hermione said, standing as she carefully levitated Fleamont’s body. “He doesn’t have any broken bones, but I can’t identify why he’s unconscious. I’ve put him in a medical stasis – he won’t move or awaken during transport, and his condition shouldn’t worsen, at least until Madame Pomfrey can have a proper look at him.”

 

 

Professor Merrythought was surprised by the girl’s level head; she had thought that the young woman was in shock with the way she had been acting. But no, she had done damage control instead, and if Galatea wasn’t mistaken, Hermione had been the one to shield Fleamont from most of the spell. Casting a shield charm for someone else….that was an advanced technique used mostly by aurors. How Hermione even knew that kind of magic…

 

 

But of course, the poor child was caught up in Grindelwald’s nonsense, Galatea thought, feeling a surge of pity for the young woman.

 

 

“I’ll take him there now,” Hermione said. Professor Merrythought nodded, still distracted by her thoughts.

 

 

“I’ll accompany you.” Tom stepped up. Hermione glared at him, but had no reason to refuse him. Not one she could say in front a professor, at least.

 

 

“Yes. Good,” Professor Merrythought said. “And don’t bother coming back today. I imagine you’ve had quite a shock, Hermione. Tom, do make sure Madame Pomfrey takes a look at Miss Graves as well.”

 

 

“Of course,” he said before leading Hermione and a floating Fleamont out of the Defense classroom. Once they were away from prying ears, Tom turned to her. “Impressive spellwork today. Interesting wand you have there.”

 

 

She gave him a fake smile. “Thank you.”

 

 

“I wonder what you could accomplish with your own wand, though,” he said offhandedly. “You don’t seem quite comfortable with that one.”

 

 

“I’m comfortable enough to curse you, Riddle,” she snapped. “But if you want to give me my wand back, I’d be more than happy you show you exactly what I’m capable of.”

 

 

“So hostile,” he said, his voice teasing, but Hermione wasn’t stupid enough to miss the edge to his tone. “I find that I’m very curious to see what you can do when you’re not holding yourself back. People like Potter here will only slow you down; you shouldn’t have to limit yourself for them, Hermione.”

 

 

“Is that why you had Dolohov hex him?” she challenged. She could feel the anger threatening to burst, filling her up like poison she could somehow use to kill him. She had not wanted to kill him this badly until now, but with the injured, almost-familiar boy at her side, and the memories from the war pushing at the walls of her brain, she was five seconds away from cursing him to dust.

 

 

“Such accusations, Hermione-“

 

 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Riddle,” she said with venom. She laughed bitterly. “I know what you are.” They stopped just outside the hospital wing. Hermione tried to go through the doors, but Tom blocked her way.

 

 

“And what am I?” he asked quietly, all traces of false innocence stripped away. She met his gaze coolly.

 

 

“You’re a teenager. And one day, you might be Minister of Magic, or you might be the next Gellert Grindelwald. You might even be a decent wizard now, but you’re also a petty, childish boy, and I don’t have time to humor your games just so you can prove you’re worth something.” She smiled at him, and it was terrifying. “If you want a fight, you take it up with me. But if you touch my friends, I’ll kill you, and I don’t need my wand to do it.”

 

 

He glared at her, jaw clenched. He was murderous; Hermione idly wondered if that was what his face looked like when he confronted his father. But she didn’t care right now, and he couldn’t very well kill her in the hallway right outside the hospital wing, so she merely brushed past him, towing Fleamont behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought you guys another update nice and quick. This was so fun to write, so it's much longer than usual. YAY! I had a hard time figuring out where to stop :) Hope you all are still enjoying the story.
> 
> As always, kudos and comment. I love to hear from you all and your reviews are fuel for my writing!
> 
> Much love <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's your friendly reminder that Tom is very much not a good person.

After the initial panic that comes with knowing your death is imminent, there’s a startling serenity, a calm that settles in like a thick fog. It’s the knowing, Hermione supposed; knowing that it’s unavoidable, that no matter what you might try to do, no matter how much distance you put between yourself and the thing or person about to kill you, it won’t do any good. Hermione Granger had long ago come to terms with the idea that she would likely never reach the age of 30. Somewhere between Dumbledore’s death and running through forests, changing locations every two days, and plunging a basilisk fang through Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, she’d realized that there was no life for her beyond the war. There would be no career in the ministry, no glamorous wedding to Ron at the Burrow, no children tugging at her robes and making their toys fly around the room in fits of accidental magic. Hermione Granger had learned to be okay with that. Hermione Granger had been ready to die, especially if it meant that everyone else could live. She’d had nothing more to lose back then.

 

 

But Hermione Graves…

 

 

Hermione Graves – with a plan that relied on her outliving Voldemort – was just now in the midst of the panic that came with knowing that a two-time murderer was rapidly losing patience with her. After she’d left Fleamont in the capable hands of Madame Pomfrey with the assurance that he wasn’t in any serious danger, Hermione had been filled with such an intense dread that she’d simply gone back up to her bed and collapsed. Her conversation with Riddle was playing on repeat in her head, and now that Fleamont was out of immediate danger, the clarity of her situation made her want to smack her head into the nearest wall.

 

 

Her first instinct was to run to the Room of Requirement and simply camp out there until Tom’s anger had abated at least a little. But she knew he was already curious as to where she disappeared off to and that both Malfoy and Dolohov were watching her. They probably thought they were being subtle. Adorable. No, she couldn’t keep hiding out every time things went to shit. Any disappearance on her part would easily be noted – she only had one roommate in the seventh-year Slytherin girl’s dorms, after all, since every other pureblood girl who would have been in her year had already been married off and pulled out of school. Vera Buchanan was the only one left, and she was too nosy and too loyal to Riddle for Hermione to even attempt to sneak out without notice. Even if she used Harry’s invisibility cloak to get out, Hermione’s empty bed wouldn’t go undocumented.

 

 

Instead, Hermione stayed in her room, foregoing dinner with a muttered excuse about having a headache. Her sleep had been fitful, but dreamless, and she woke feeling as though she’d only blinked away the night. She was late to breakfast and only had time to grab a piece of toast before Transfiguration, but she’d avoided Riddle and his gang entirely. In fact, she hadn’t seen him at all since their…conversation outside of the hospital wing. That only made her more nervous.

 

 

Yet he ignored her in Transfiguration and afterwards, not bothering to wait to walk her to class. She entered the Potions room on high alert, just in case he’d set a trap for her. But no, there was nothing out of order, except for the fact that Fleamont was still in the hospital wing and Abraxas was noticeably absent. Which meant…

 

 

_No. No, no, no. Please, Merlin, no._

 

 

“Ah, Miss Graves,” Professor Slughorn said in his annoyingly cheerful way. “Since you and Tom both appear to be without a partner, perhaps you’ll join him up front for today’s lesson.”

 

 

Hermione complied, stomping down the growing anxiety in her stomach. For his part, Tom didn’t react to her sitting beside him except to nod shortly in greeting. Hermione resisted the urge to scowl. There was nothing in his expression to indicate his murderous intent towards her, but she was under no illusion that he’d forgotten to be angry with her. His polite mask of indifference only indicated that he’d been planning and that he was confident in his own success.

 

 

“Today we’ll be brewing a simple Pepperup Potion. Now I know it’s not that exciting, but Madame Pomfrey will be needing her stock replenished as the weather turns. And it’s a potion every wizard and witch should know. It’ll save you quite a few galleons if you can brew it yourself.” Slughorn smiled. “You’ll find the instructions in your texts.”

 

 

“I’ll retrieve the ingredients,” Riddle said quietly. He returned a moment later, and they set to work in synchronized silence. Tom, Hermione noticed, barely glanced at the instructions. He did not seem particularly keen on following them either, as he crushed a frozen Ashwinder Egg to dust before sprinkling it in the cauldron rather than dropping it in whole. She thought about scolding him – a fragment of her past-self – before she remembered that Tom Riddle had always been exceptional in potions.

 

 

Hermione thought, suddenly, of Professor Snape’s corrections to potions written in the margins of the book Harry had once borrowed. Despite her warnings to Harry, she had, somewhat guiltily, read through the entire book herself, memorizing each page to the best of her ability. Perhaps Riddle was a natural genius, she thought bitterly. It was likely that he’d never really had to work to be good at magic, not in the ways that she had. Hermione knew she was talented, but that talent had come from hours of practice and her stubborn determination to prove her own worth.

 

 

“You look as though you might have an aneurism, Miss Graves,” Tom said, his deceptively calm voice low enough for just her to hear. “You have something to say.”

 

 

“What did you do to Abraxas?”

 

 

That was certainly not what he had expected, if the brief raise of his brow was anything to go by. He probably thought she would berate him for not following the instructions, not accuse him of harming his “closest friend”.

 

 

“Nothing he couldn’t handle,” Tom said after a moment, the corner of his lip quirking as he spoke. There was a subtle, but dangerous glint to his dark eyes as he turned to her. “If you’d like a more thorough explanation, though, I’m sure an examination of your wand would be most…telling.”

 

 

Her mouth hung open involuntarily. He hadn’t used her wand to…had he? Of bloody course he had, the prick. And now, oh Merlin, now he had leverage. She needed to get her wand back from him, and quick.

 

 

“Though your wand is perhaps not as fond of me” – and at this Hermione took a small bit of glee from Tom’s clearly frustrated expression – “I was more than surprised to find its willingness to perform dark magic.”

 

 

“If you’ve tarnished my wand-“

 

 

He flashed his teeth in a sadistic imitation of a smile. “You know what’s interesting, Hermione? I could tell your wand has cast an unforgiveable before just by the way it _sung_ when I crucioed Abraxas.” He paused, as if thoughtful. “I wonder if the aurors will be impressed when I turn it over to them, or if they’ll just throw you in Azkaban without even a trial.”

 

 

“You wouldn’t,” she hissed, her eyes narrowed. Tom only smirked in return. There was a chance that he was bluffing, but she remembered what had happened to Hagrid when Riddle framed him, and there wasn’t’ even half as much evidence as there would be now. Dumbledore wouldn’t be able to save her if Tom decided to follow through on his threat.

 

 

 “Marvelous potion,” Slughorn gushed only ten minutes later as he looked down at the orange concoction in their cauldron. “Absolutely marvelous. I daresay, Tom m’boy, Abraxas has been holding you back. And you, Miss Graves. Of course, your test results said you were exceptional, but this, truly, is a perfect potion. We must consider a reassignment of partners, I think. It will not do to stifle genius, you know.”

 

 

Hermione almost groaned aloud at Slughorn’s statement. If she had to work with Tom every day for the rest of the school year, she’d go mad. Of course, given his threats against her, she might only have another week at Hogwarts before Azkaban became her permanent new home. She resolved to start researching now, just in case she needed to break out. No matter what happened, she wasn’t going to sit in a jail cell for the rest of her life.

 

 

“That being said,” Slughorn continued. “Miss Graves, I’m throwing together a little Halloween party this Friday evening. Very exclusive, you understand, only my top students are invited. But I think you would be a wonderful addition to our party. What do you say, my dear?”

 

 

Hermione plastered a smile on her face. “I’d be delighted, sir.”

 

 

“And I’m sure Tom would be happy to fill you in on the details.” Slughorn gave the boy a knowing wink, and Hermione fought the urge to openly object.

 

 

“Of course, Professor.” Even Tom’s smile looked a bit forced, but Slughorn didn’t seem to notice.

 

 

“That’s settled, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“My knight in shining armor,” Fleamont cheered the moment Hermione set foot in the hospital wing. He looked pale with dark rings under his eyes and his lips were chapped, but he was sitting upright even if his body seemed to shake occasionally. He was alive and relatively unharmed, glasses askew on his nose, unkempt hair sticking out in every direction.

 

 

“Does that make you a damsel?” Hermione asked wryly as she took a seat in a chair beside Fleamont’s cot. Adessa was sitting cross-legged in the chair on the other side of the cot, grinning at Hermione but looking a bit tired herself.

 

 

“Indeed,” Fleamont said without skipping a beat. “I fear you shall have to duel Dolohov for my honor. End him for me, won’t you?”

 

 

Adessa rolled her eyes. “He’s taking this a bit personally, in case you couldn’t tell. Not that he shouldn’t. Dolohov’s had it out for him since first year.”

 

 

“And Riddle,” Fleamont interjected. “He’s behind the whole thing.”

 

 

“It’s a conspiracy, apparently,” Adessa snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Something about Riddle being threatened by him, or something.”

 

 

“It’s my hair.”

 

 

There was a sudden, breezy laugh from the doorway. “It’s not your hair.” Euphemia walked into the hospital wing looking nothing but fondly at Fleamont as she shook her head. Rosalind, with her perfectly coifed blond hair, stood beside her.

 

 

“Besides,” Rosalind said, “have you seen Riddle? Like him or not, you have to admit that he’s got no reason to feel threatened by anyone. Right, Hermione?”

 

 

It took her a whole ten seconds to realize that the blond was referencing Riddle’s classically good looks, and nothing more. Hermione shrugged.

 

 

“He’s passable, I suppose. If you’re into that whole roguish-asshole aesthetic.” While Fleamont and Adessa were amused – and even Euphemia was close to a smile – Rosalind seemed more putout.

 

 

“He is not anything of the sort,” she defended blindly, nose in the air. “He’s a scholar and a gentleman. And the only reason Fleamont doesn’t like him is because Riddle’s a likeable Slytherin, which goes against everything he believes in.”

 

 

“I would remind you that I’m a Slytherin and none of you seem to have a problem with me,” Hermione said casually. She raised a brow at the blond girl. “I suppose Riddle’s good looks have nothing to do with your opinion of him, do they Rosalind?”

 

 

She had the decency to look a touch embarrassed, and as Hermione stood from her seat – offering it to Euphemia – she decided she’d take pity on Rosalind, if only this once. She smiled kindly at the girl, doing her best not to look pitying.

 

 

“Whatever his merits, Riddle is still human,” Hermione said gently. “He’s flawed, and though I hate to perpetuate house stereotypes, there is a reason he’s revered among the Slytherins. My mother once told me that pretty things are often the most dangerous. I urge you to remember that.”

 

 

Rosalind was now frowning. “But, then…is he not courting you?”

 

 

Hermione stood there, slack-jawed, wondering if this question was something she’d ever stop being shocked at being asked. When Balthazar had told her that people suspected that she and Riddle were a couple, she had acknowledged the information and then promptly decided that it must have been the opinion of a small minority. Now she wasn’t so sure.

 

 

“Merlin, no,” she finally spluttered. “Is that what everyone thinks?”

 

 

Rosalind, though, looked thoughtful. “No, not everyone.” She paused for a moment before taking Hermione’s hand in an unexpectedly concerned gesture. “You’re new here, and so I feel…honor-bound, I suppose, to warn you. But Riddle has always been both subtle and rather brief with his…interests. I like you Hermione, and I would hate to see you become merely another…ah, conquest of his. You understand me, yes?”

 

 

Hermione’s eyebrows had crawled halfway up her forehead, for she did understand quite clearly. “I thought you believed him to be a gentleman?” she asked, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to discern exactly what light Rosalind viewed Riddle. The girl seemed both naïve and cynical, blinded by beauty and simultaneously aware of a hint of darkness beneath the surface. Hermione was horribly confused.

 

 

“Of course he’s a gentleman,” Rosalind said with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not like he’s misled anyone with false promises of marriage or anything. In fact, I’m quite sure he’s up front with what he wants. And he never divulges any personal information – that’s always other Slytherins looking for personal gain. But” – and Rosalind looked at Hermione very seriously again – “a lady’s reputation is often all she has. Only the likes of Caroline Cross would throw it away for nothing more than a passing interest.”

 

 

Hermione bit her tongue. She understood now, really. It was a sign of the times, she supposed, that women were valued solely on their ability to maintain their “purity”. And the double-standard of it was truly incredible – that Rosalind could defend Riddle’s flirtations as gentlemanly simply because he supposedly wasn’t sharing the gritty details of his every sexual encounter while she simultaneously looked down on the women he was sleeping with. Her advice had ultimately been “don’t sleep with any guy until you have him locked into marrying, or else you’ll be worthless”. It was ridiculous. It was sexist. It was infuriating.

 

 

“You know, Rosalind,” Hermione began, having been unable to keep her opinion to herself. “You could have shortened that whole spiel by just telling me not to be a slag. That is what you were trying to say, isn’t it?”

 

 

The blond was entirely red in the face. “I certainly didn’t mean-“

 

 

“A little advice: you don’t deserve to only be defined by your supposed value to men,” Hermione continued, ignoring Rosalind’s embarrassed protest. “And it’s so much easier to support the women around you than to judge them.”

 

 

Hermione didn’t give the girl a chance to respond, brushing past her. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to be so harsh to Rosalind, or to reveal how much of a feminist she was herself, but Hermione shrugged it off. What’s done is done, her father used to say. Besides, it’s not like anything she said wasn’t something she’d be willing to publicly back up. She didn’t need men to want to marry her and being vocally feminist in the 1940s sure as hell was one way to ensure that wouldn’t be a problem.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione was good at stewing. She’d been in a foul mood ever since her conversation with Rosalind, and in the back of her mind, she wondered how many of her nothing-more-than-civil interactions with male classmates were being considered flirtatious or inappropriate by the other students. She tried not to let it bother her, but the more she observed other girls in her year, the more she realized her own behavior stood out like a sore thumb. It was apparently rare to have friendships with people of the opposite gender – unless they were a sibling or cousin. Hufflepuff seemed to have the most exceptions to this rule, but event then it was sporadic.

 

 

Hermione looked around at the dinner table and repressed a sigh. She’d initially sat with Riddle and his gang because the obnoxious prat had essentially demanded it, but now it was her only real option if she wanted any company during her meal whatsoever. She’d failed to make any female friends in Slytherin – Vera and the sixth-year girls she spent time with were an extremely close-knit clique, and the younger girls did not bother to hide their disdain at her tainted blood status. Hermione wouldn’t even say she had male friends in Slytherin. There was Abraxas, but he was a shaky alliance at best, and she knew that he despised her on some level. The rest of Riddle’s gang were distant to the point where Hermione didn’t even really know all of their names. Which left only Riddle himself, and they were more rivals locked in an unending game of tug-of-war than anything else, except perhaps mortal enemies. But then, only one of them knew the true extent of the rift between them.

 

 

Hermione sadly realized that she only considered three people her friends: Adessa, obviously, Fleamont, and Balthazar. And really, she wasn’t so sure about Balthazar. He was nice, and Hermione did like him well enough, but there was something about him that felt…off. Not necessarily in a bad way, but she was certain that he was hiding something. At the very least, he always looked like he knew more than he was letting on, and that had a tendency to make her uncomfortable.

 

 

She had been at Hogwarts in this time for a little over a month – she could hardly believe how fast time had flown, given that Halloween was this coming weekend – and yet could only claim two friends that she was sure of. It was not exactly something to be proud of. She had resolved to work harder, and was in the middle of a surprisingly unforced academic discussion with Mulciber and Avery – two sixth-years in Tom’s gang – about the medical merits of using butterscotch in potions, when Tom walked into to dinner, no less than twenty-minutes late, followed by a limping Abraxas.

 

 

Seeing the usually aristocratic blond boy wince as he sat at the table was enough to remind Hermione of her conversation with Tom in potions, and she wondered exactly how long Abraxas had been held under the cruciatus. He was no doubt taking a full arsenal of pain potions to be up an about at all, yet he looked as if he’d just been plowed by a muggle eighteen-wheeler at full speed. Before she could get too worked up about it – and before she could examine the bizarre surge of protectiveness she felt for the boy who had tried and failed to effectively torture her not that long ago – Tom was leaning closer to her, and she froze.

 

 

“You will make yourself available in the common room at eleven this evening,” he said lowly.

 

 

She swallowed, trying her hardest to make sure he didn’t see the tremors in her hands. She was under no illusion as to what he was planning; it would be revenge for the disrespect she had shown him the day before, and it would be brutal. He might even kill her. She would not put it past him to lose his temper and _avada_ her right there in the common room.

 

 

“And if I were to not comply?” she asked, her voice sounding very small in comparison to his smooth baritone.

 

 

He glanced at her with a raised brow and a wicked glint to his dark, almost-black eyes. “Your wand would find its way to Headmaster Dippet, along with a testimony from Abraxas and other witnesses that you used an unforgiveable on him in response to a comment on your blood status. I don’t think I need to explain the consequences.”

 

 

She could see it in his expression that while he would rather have her compliance, her refusal to participate in whatever scheme he had planned would do little to diminish his overall satisfaction. She was trapped brilliantly, and if the situation was not happening to her directly, she would have appreciated the clever manipulation. Instead, she was just pissed that she had allowed herself to be backed into a corner. If she survived tonight, she’d have to make sure this never happened again.

 

 

Hermione forced herself to pick up her goblet of pumpkin juice and take a sip as if she couldn’t have cared less about the conversation they were having.

 

 

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be there.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione wasn’t stupid. If she was going to willingly walk into a death trap, she was going to go into it with as many contingency plans as possible. There was an owl ready to go to Dumbledore with every shred of evidence she had against Tom – memories of her time in the past as well as memories of memories she had seen in the future – if she wasn’t back to stop the owl by morning. It wouldn’t be enough to get Riddle locked in Azkaban right off, but it would be enough to launch a thorough investigation. She’d secured the evidence by placing a curse on the package that would pretty much instantly kill anyone other than the intended recipient should they try to remove the package. It might have been a bit extreme, but she wasn’t fucking around. If Riddle killed her, then the least she could do was take him down with her.

 

 

These precautions hadn’t stopped her from vomiting up her entire dinner in anxiety. That certainly hadn’t been pleasant, but Hermione had reasoned later that it was always better to be tortured on an empty stomach. Maybe it was childish, but she didn’t want to vomit in front of Riddle if she could help it. As if that was the worst thing that could happen.

 

 

At 10:58, she made her way to the common room, having chugged the calming draught she smuggled out of the hospital wing during her visit with Fleamont. She wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but she wondered if this was how Harry felt walking into the Forbidden Forest to meet Lord Voldemort, knowing that he’d die without even putting up a fight. She’d always marveled at how he’d been able to do it so calmly and without hesitation when the time came. But that was just Harry: unfailingly self-sacrificing until the very end.

 

 

Leaning against the portrait-hole looking like a pair of dirty cops stood Rasmus Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. The common room was otherwise empty, Hermione noted, but it didn’t look like they’d be staying there anyway.

 

 

“Right on time,” Lestrange drawled, looking disappointed. “Pity.”

 

 

Dolohov grinned at his counterpart. “I think she’s a bit late, actually.”

 

 

“But Riddle said –“ Lestrange started.

 

 

“Who said Riddle has to know,” Dolohov sneered. “I’m sure he won’t mind if she’s a little…roughed up.”

 

 

“Then you’re even more incompetent than you look,” Hermione said slowly, giving her the appearance of boredom. Despite the lazy way she strode over to the portrait-hole, her ebony wand was gripped tightly in her hand, hidden by the folds of her robes. “Whatever Riddle has planned for me, he clearly wants to handle himself. He won’t be pleased if you keep him waiting. And if you think you can keep anything from him – if you think you can lie to him and get away with it – then you clearly haven’t spent enough time on the wrong end of his wand. Perhaps I’ll mention that to him.”

 

 

It was probably a little hypocritical – and more than a little risky – of her to use Tom as a threat, considering that she was undoubtedly about to be tortured and possibly killed, but for some reason, the idea of Lestrange and Dolohov getting a chance to hurt her was more unappealing than death. Perhaps it was because, in her own time, Lord Voldemort was direct and to the point when it came to torture, whereas the Lestranges and Dolohov himself had been more creative in a vile, twisted way. The “why” of it didn’t matter, though, as Hermione watched with some degree of satisfaction as Lestrange’s face paled.

 

 

“Shut up,” Dolohov growled before turning and opening the portrait.

 

 

Lestrange’s wand prodded the small of her back and she stepped forward. It seemed that, for the moment at least, the fear of their Lord was enough to keep them from attacking her. She was led through a series of hallways the delved further into the dungeons until they stopped suddenly outside of a seemingly random doorway. She remembered it, though, from the night only a few short weeks before when she ran into the tail end of one of Tom’s meetings. Before she could enter, however, Dolohov blocked her way, his wand digging into the flesh of her cheek. She resisted the urge to curse him where he stood; it was better to play along now and not make things worse for herself in the long run. There’d be plenty of time to get proper revenge on him later.

 

 

“He’s going to paint the walls with your filthy blood,” Dolohov said, a cruel smile twisting the features of his face. “But I hope he doesn’t kill you. I hope he leaves some for the rest of us.”

 

 

Hermione smiled prettily back at him. “If I make it out of this alive, Antonin, you can be sure I’ll save a little something just for you.”

 

 

Without another word, she brushed aside his wand and strode through the door. The room was candlelit and warmer in appearance than any other room in the dungeons. Tom Riddle was seated imperiously on a large desk at the head of the room, twirling his yew wand in his hand, seemingly not paying attention to her at all. As soon as she was through the threshold, however, the door slammed shut behind her, lock clicking. There was a tangible wave of magic as a massive silencing charm went up around the room.

 

 

That didn’t bode well.

 

 

“Hello, Hermione,” Tom said, still not looking directly at her.

 

 

 _What a dramatic bastard,_ Hermione thought for a brief second before her attention was drawn by the raising of Tom’s wand.

 

 

“Crucio.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dark magic had a euphoric, intoxicating, addictive quality to it. The more Tom did it, the more he wanted to do it. It had always been like that for him, but especially after creating the horcruxes, and using the unforgiveables was the quickest, easiest way for him to get his fix. It was better than any drug he’d ever tried. Better than sex. Well, nine times out of ten.

 

 

The magic rushed through him as he watched Hermione’s back arch off the ground, her wild hair clinging to her forehead with sweat, nothing but the sound of her screaming through clenched teeth. He reluctantly let up on the curse for a moment, delighting in the way her body slumped, defeated onto the cold stone floor. Less than thirty seconds, and she was already exhausted. He would have liked to keep going, but perhaps short intervals were best. He wanted her conscious and responsive for their discussion, after all.

 

 

“No back-talk today?” Tom was back to lazily spinning his wand between his fingers. Hermione had managed to push herself into a sitting position, but only barely. She didn’t respond to his question, but he didn’t need her to. He ran his tongue over the back of his teeth before grinning at her. “I really hate having to do this, you know.”

 

 

There was a choked sound from the bushy-haired girl on the floor in front of him and it took him a moment to identify it as laughter. “Liar,” she coughed.

 

 

The word was barely out of her mouth when a jet of red light slammed into her again. She writhed, her body bent at odd angles – a series of muscular contractions enacted to try to escape the pain. It was futile, of course. Only he had the power to stop it, and he wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood. How dare she laugh at him? How dare she continue to see through him, even when he had the upper hand? He lifted the curse again, this time after a full minute.

 

 

Hermione was curled up on the floor, a small trickle of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her screams had faded into a whimper the moment he lifted the curse, but the quiet sounds were no less pleasant to Tom’s ears. Her throat would be raw for the next few days. He had to admit he was looking forward to seeing the lasting damage from this little session of theirs. How long would she remain bedridden, unable to move without crying out from the agony? How long would she be too shaky to even raise her wand? How long would she flinch away from him? The after-effects were almost as sweet as the curse itself.

 

 

“I’ve been lenient so far,” Tom said conversationally as he finally stood from the desk. “I’ve tolerated your rebellion, your abhorrent lack of manners, your disrespect. I hoped that you would see sense, but you forced my hand.”

 

 

He walked over to her before nudging her with his foot, pushing her from her position curled on her side until she was flat on her back. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she yelped at the movement. He towered over her, looking down at the girl with a sneer of disdain.

 

 

“You need to learn your place,” he murmured, his soothing tone a stark contrast to the sadistic glee burning behind his eyes. “You’re beneath me, Hermione, with your tainted blood. You’re a silly, little girl. You’re nothing.”

 

 

At her lack of reaction, rage flooded through his veins. The cruciatus was fine, but he wanted her to bleed. He wanted to _see_ her bleed. With a slash of his wand, he cut away her robes, leaving her in the standard skirt and blouse uniform. She had apparently forgone the usual wool jumper, leaving his view of her white blouse unobstructed. That would do nicely, he decided.

 

 

Without even muttering a spell, he slashed his wand through the air again and again, watching as crimson streaks bloomed across her arms, chest, and torso. Hermione was screaming again, but in bursts. It was almost better than the cruciatus, watching the physical evidence of his spellwork staining her perfect, regulation-approved school uniform. They were shallow cuts – nothing that would require any serious healing – but they were perfect, and he was almost tempted to remove the last layer of her clothes to view his work more directly. Perhaps another time, he told himself. That would only be a distraction, and he still had a lesson to teach.

 

 

“Look at me, Hermione,” he said a little breathlessly. She didn’t immediately comply, her face still scrunched up in pain.  “Look at me!”

 

 

Her brown eyes cracked open, watery and filled with pain. Almost instantly, Tom dropped to his knees, straddling her as he wound a hand into her tangled hair, pulling until her back was arched and her head lifted closer to his.

 

 

“Let’s see what’s in that pretty little head of yours,” he hissed. Her eyes widened at that. Finally, there was the fear he’d been waiting for. “Legilimens.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Run, Hermione. RUN!” A red-haired boy that Tom had never seen before was dragging him – no, not him, but Hermione – by the hand through a forest. The trees flew by them in a blur, the ground beneath them crunching loudly with every step. It was cold enough that the sweat was freezing on his body – not his, Hermione’s, Tom reminded himself – and Hermione’s cheeks burned from the sleet. Behind them, flashes of green and red and dozens of other colors whizzed by, seeming to get ever closer, but never quite hitting. There was a dark-haired boy in front of them, and for a minute, Tom thought he was looking at Fleamont Potter of all people. Before he could think on that any further, however, the sweaty grip on Hermione’s hand went slack and the red-haired boy dropped to the ground, eyes glassy. Hermione didn’t stop running as she fired a killing curse over her shoulder, tears beginning to blur her vision –_

Tom was forced out of that memory, but immediately resurfaced in another.

 

 

_A pebbled beach. Warm. Sunny on her tanned skin. A new smattering of freckles on her skin. Waves crashing on her tiny feet. Afraid of the ocean. No. Afraid of being swept away by the ocean. A woman’s voice. “Hermione! Hermione! Where are you?” A beautiful woman with wildly curly hair that could only be her mother. A blinding smile. “There you are.”_

The image shifted again.

 

 

_“I can’t give you everything in the world, but I’ll give you everything I have.” The redhead boy again, this time on one knee in some sort of bizarre tent, a small, inexpensive ring in his outstretched hand. “Marry me?” Arms thrown around his neck, and suddenly Hermione was kissing the boy. Chapped lips against chapped lips. Frantic, like they might die at any moment. They could die tomorrow. They could die today. But no fear, just love._

 

Tom jerked himself out of that memory, half out of disgust and half out of a blinding anger that he couldn’t identify or control.

_“Who said Riddle has to know?” That was Dolohov, Tom was sure of it. This wasn’t helping his anger. And then: “Whatever Riddle has planned for me, he clearly wants to handle himself. He won’t be pleased if you keep him waiting. And if you think you can keep anything from him – if you think you can lie to him and get away with it – then you clearly haven’t spent enough time on the wrong end of his wand.” Now that was definitely Hermione. Curious. Very curious. Was she defending him, or herself, or both? It didn’t matter. Dolohov and…yes, Lestrange too, would suffer for it._

A series of sudden shifts.

 

 

_The dark-haired boy who looked so much like Fleamont Potter was dancing with Hermione in the bizarre tent, and from this close the differences between the boy and Fleamont were obvious. They were leaning into each other, arms wrapped around each other for comfort._

_Clinging desperately to the back of a dragon and a terror of flying, a terror of falling. A cruciatus from a dark-haired madwoman whose cackling almost drowned out Hermione’s screams. Hermione punching a blond-haired boy, breaking his nose, and the rush of satisfaction as he bled. Standing tall over a whimpering, bleeding man – a burning hatred towards him that had nothing to do with Tom’s anger, it was all Hermione – and she eviscerated him, stripping his flesh from his bones. A werewolf howling, and Hermione howling back._

_More kissing from the red-haired boy, freckled hands on the span of Hermione’s bare waist, her hips –_

Tom was shoved forcefully from her mind. Hermione’s face was tear-streaked and pained. She was panting and clutching at his robes, almost using him for support. He pushed away from her and stood up, shoving her to the floor in the process. That had been enlightening…and perhaps even more confusing. He hadn’t gotten a single entire memory, and the fragments had done nothing but make him even more curious about her than he’d already been. But now he had pressing matters to attend to with Dolohov and Lestrange. With Hermione properly cowed, there would be plenty of time for more in-depth exploration of her later.

 

 

“I don’t think I have to remind you of what will happen to you and your wand if you should feel the need to tell anyone about this conversation,” Tom said, trying to control his own breathing. He was still reeling from being ejected from her mind – how had she done that, especially in her condition, he wondered.

 

 

Hermione – now curled in on herself again – only whimpered in response, blood still flowing freely from her new wounds. Tom sneered. Good.

 

 

“Unfortunately I can’t stay. There’s a slight in-house problem I have to take care of. You understand, I’m sure,” he said dismissively from the doorway. “Clean yourself up and make sure you’re not seen on your way back to the dormitories. I’d hate to have to deduct house points tonight as well.”

 

 

Without another glance in her direction, he strode out of the room. He’d handle the Dolohov problem tonight, even if he had to drag the boy from his bed himself. And then, maybe, he could reflect on what he’d learned about Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with this that I simply couldn't stop writing. 
> 
> So sorry for the super late update, but I hope I made up for it by posting a super long chapter (for me at least). As I mentioned in the comments section, I've done a lot of planning for this story lately and now know that it will be at least 40 chapters in total, so we've got a long ways to go. Now that everything's planned out, I hope to post more frequently. We'll see if life continues to get in the way.
> 
> As always, thank you all for still reading. Feel free to kudos, comment, etc. I love hearing what you all think.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "I Hope this Makes Up for What Happened Last Chapter" Chapter. 
> 
> Tom is not as satisfied as he thinks he should be. Hermione's in it for the long con. Balthazar, Adessa, and Euphemia get smart. And Tom makes plans that he will no doubt be unsatisfied with later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: 
> 
> A few weeks ago, someone commented as a guest that they thought this story was Slytherin-bashing. They said that the worst thing that Slytherins do canonically is call people "mean names." APPARENTLY I have to remind people that calling someone a "mudblood" IS A RACIST SLUR in the world of Harry Potter. So here's that reminder. 
> 
> p.s. if you're interested in my full response to that comment -- and it's a long one -- check out the previous chapter's comments
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------

Tom wanted to be in a good mood. He really did. He had, after all, accomplished what he’d wanted to with Hermione. When he’d left her, she’d been a sniveling, crying, mess on the floor. She had screamed prettily, had writhed in a way that Tom could only call artistic, and according to Vera, Hermione’s reluctant roommate, the curly-haired girl had been unable to get out of bed and was claiming being horrendously sick.

 

In addition to that, he’d had luck torturing Dolohov last night as well. The boy had screamed even louder than Hermione, had bled and begged for forgiveness. He had muttered promises over and over again like a prayer that he would never do anything to question Tom’s authority ever again. And maybe Tom didn’t believe him for even a second, but it was satisfying to hear nonetheless.

 

And yet…

 

And yet things had not all been as he’d hoped. His foray into Hermione’s mind had been…well, he honestly didn’t know what to make of it. He’d gathered that she had fought in a war, that she was a survivor at heart, and that she had been in love once. He’d seen a glimpse of her as a child – and hadn’t that been odd? Tom was finding it difficult to imagine Hermione as anything other than exactly as she was now, despite the fact that he’d seen evidence to the contrary.

 

But what did any of it mean? He’d been awake all night thinking about it. About her. So she’d been in love. That made her weak and sentimental, no different from any other woman, and therefore not a good fit for his knights. That was easy. But…she had fought in a war and lived through it. From the looks of it, she’d had more of a hand in the war with Grindelwald than she had told Dippet. The old coot thought Hermione Graves was a refugee, not a soldier. Maybe those rumors about her being a hit-wizard held some weight after all.

 

And if so, then yes, she’d be a perfect recruit. That, too, was easy. She’d held some semblance of mental shields during torture, had out-maneuvered Tom himself on more than one occasion, and was perhaps the sharpest woman he’d ever met. But she was a liar, and headstrong, and after being tortured, she had clung to him like silly little girl. And because she was all of these things simultaneously, she was a complicated situation.

 

Tom would have liked to be a good mood, and he felt that he’d more than deserved it. But he wasn’t.

 

Dumbledore’s eyes were pinned on him, that annoying twinkle absent. The repeated absence of Hermione at breakfast was not going unnoticed, then. Now was certainly not the right time for Dumbledore sticking his nose where it absolutely didn’t belong.

 

“Tom.” A voice drew him out of his musings and forced him to tear his eyes away from Dumbledore. Abraxas sat next to him, lips pursed in concern. The blond wiped his expression clean. “Are you going to Dueling Club this afternoon?”

 

Abraxas was perhaps the only person who could get away with looking vaguely concerned for Tom’s wellbeing without getting thoroughly hexed, Tom thought with some amusement. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to show such favoritism, but then again, Abraxas typically fucked up the least, and good behavior always deserved to be rewarded.

 

“Of course,” Tom said, “though I doubt there will be a point.”

 

Abraxas didn’t ask for a qualification. He knew Tom well enough to know that the dark-haired boy had little difficulty defeating any other student in an outright duel, and that the only reason Tom even attended those club meetings was to maintain his spot at the top of the leaderboard. No one challenged him these days anyway, not unless they were stupid, cocky, or legitimately had a death wish.

 

“Perhaps Miss Graves—“

 

Tom’s lips quirked slightly. “Hermione is apparently extremely sick this morning.”

 

Abraxas’s stomach dropped. He didn’t like Hermione enough to really be worried for her – in fact, he barely liked her at all, aside from their mutually beneficial arrangement – but he knew that being extremely sick in Slytherin house was code for “nearly cursed into an early grave.” He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy, having been in that exact position many times before.

 

“I see,” was all the blond said in return.

 

“Yes, Hermione will not be attending dueling club today,” Tom said, once more feeling a flood of satisfaction at his work. “Of that, I am sure.”

 

* * *

 

Hermione could not recall exactly how she had been talked into going to the Dueling Club, but she suspected it was half out of necessity to appear okay for the sake of her friends and half out of a desire to show Riddle how very little his little show of torture had affected her. She was determined to adopt the whole “appear weak when you are strong, and appear strong when you are weak” philosophy preached in Sun Tzu’s “Art of War,” the book she had been rereading ever since the sorting hat had quoted it several weeks ago.

 

Hermione was, admittedly, not doing nearly as well as she had forced herself to appear. She had taken three pepper-up potions, a high dosage of Cambodian painkillers, and a big swig of essence of dittany in the hope that some combination of these self-prescribed medications would alleviate some of the damage done by Riddle. Even the weakest cruciatus was an extraordinarily painful experience, and Riddle was not weak. She could walk without actively wincing now, but the pain was still there. Her limbs were shaky, her voice raw. The only thing that had healed up with no trouble at all were the cuts he’d littered across her body. They wouldn’t even scar.

 

Acquiescing to Riddle’s demand to meet him and face the consequences of her actions had, in hindsight, not been her best plan. She was gifted with memory charms, after all. She could have easily erased any problem that he would have caused her if he’d turned in her wand and accused her of using the unforgivables. She could have, in fact, done any number of things, but none of them were guaranteed to work. And besides, she wasn’t trying to win every battle with Riddle. She was in it for the long con.

 

If that meant that sometimes she’d have to let him think he was winning, then that’s what she’d do. She’d let some of her memories slip by, some by accident, some on purpose, but nothing that incriminated her as a time traveler. She hadn’t been able to help the screams, but that’s what Tom wanted anyway. Hermione considered it a trade, really. She gave him hints of who she was, gave him the illusion of submission to his authority.

 

And in return? Well…

 

The smooth engraved design on her vinewood wand was a comfort in her hand. She had missed it, missed the way it felt like an extension of her arm, missed the weight of it and the small divot worn into the wood where her thumb always pressed too tight. From the hum of the wand’s dragon heartstring core, she could tell that it had missed her as well. Holding onto Riddle after he’d crucio’d her and torn through her mind had been a vile necessity. In his post-dark magic haze and his disgust with her, he hadn’t even felt her shaky hands rifling through the pockets of his robes, stealing her wand back and replacing it with a transfigured dud.

 

It had been a risk, of course. She had no guarantee that he’d even have it on him. But her wand was hers again, and he had no leverage over her for the moment. And poor Riddle. He didn’t have a clue. Hermione barely contained her smug grin.

 

The dueling club set-up was almost exactly how it had been in Hermione’s own time, only there was no incompetent Professor Lockhart in charge. Instead, Professor Merrythought, tall and clearly athletic despite being in her 60s, stood on the dueling platform, stoically waiting for everyone to file in. Hermione spotted Adessa, Euphemia, and Balthazar waving at her across the room and slowly made her way towards them, careful not to limp.

 

“You weren’t at breakfast,” Adessa accused as soon as Hermione was within hearing range. “I heard you were sick.”

 

The look the redhead gave her was beyond suspicious, and for a second, Hermione almost felt bad for lying to her.

 

“I’ve been throwing up all morning,” she rasped. “Stomach flu, I think.”

 

“Are you sure you should be here?” Euphemia asked, her warm brown eyes filled with concern. Adessa shot her a glare, as if she had someone been rude. Euphemia hurriedly backtracked. “I only mean that, in your condition, I should hardly think you’d be well enough to duel.”

 

Hermione smiled at her fondly. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m only here to watch.”

 

“Is there a reason,” Balthazar began slowly, his eyes focused on a spot just over Hermione’s shoulder, “that Tom Riddle is gaping at you like you’ve a unicorn head?”

 

Hermione turned towards the door where Riddle and his gang stood. Upon making eye contact, Riddle’s face turned into his usual mask of superior politeness. He nodded at Hermione once in greeting. In turn, she made a show of jerkily nodding her head at him and quickly turning away. It was subtle enough that her Gryffindor companions wouldn’t notice, but Tom most definitely would.

 

Adessa grimaced. “He always looks constipated.”

 

“Must be the stick up his ass,” Hermione muttered, earning a huff of laughter from Euphemia. Hermione was slowly learning that though Euphemia rarely made jokes herself, she possessed a sharp, deprecating sense of humor that was softened only by her unfailing kindness.

 

“Welcome to the Dueling Club,” Merrythought’s voice boomed. “You know the rules. Nothing illegal. Nothing lethal. Do we have any challengers?”

 

“Those are pretty non-specific rules,” Hermione whispered to Adessa. The redhead smirked and shrugged.

 

“Normally, I don’t think it’d be a problem,” she said. “But with Riddle’s vicious crew of psychopaths, we send at least one person to the hospital wing every week with our fingers crossed that they’re not crippled for life.”

 

Hermione pursed her lips, unsurprised. “Has anyone ever not recovered?”

 

Adessa tapped her fingers on her leg nervously. “A few. One boy, a Hufflepuff muggleborn, lost a leg. Even St. Mungos couldn’t regrow it. But of course, they couldn’t prove malicious intent, and Merrythought loves the idea of simulating a real duel, so nothing ever came of it.”

 

“I see.” And she probably understood better than Adessa did. She’d fought these men when they were older, knew what they were capable of. And she knew what she was capable of herself. She could accidentally kill someone if she got too wrapped up in the duel. For so long, she’d been fighting to kill. Take no prisoners. The Order couldn’t afford it.

 

Two duels had already been fought and lost. Or won, depending on your perspective, Hermione thought. Balthazar had won his duel against some other Ravenclaw that Hermione didn’t know, and Avery had just barely defeated Mulciber, though that duel had taken nearly ten minutes. A ten minute duel, in Hermione’s opinion, was precisely seven and a half minutes too long.

 

“Do people only challenge others within their own house?” Hermione asked.

 

“Nope,” Adessa said, smirking. “But it usually starts out that way. Most of the early duels are friendly. When we get to the end, there’s usually at least one or two Gryffindor-Slytherin duels. Those can get nasty. You Slytherins don’t fight fair.”

 

Hermione grinned at her teasing. “Like you Gryffindors do.” She gave her a pointed look. “Or did I imagine that dung bomb tucked up your sleeve, Miss Prewett?”

 

She grinned. “You’ve got me there.”

 

Just then, a pretty, chestnut-haired girl stood, clad in Ravenclaw robes and surrounded by an entourage of equally smug-looking girls. She was pretty, but in a small-town kind of way, with blue eyes and dainty features. She strode up to the dueling platform confidently, nodded cordially to Professor Merrythought, and turned to face Hermione directly.

 

“I, Caroline Cross of Ravenclaw, challenge Hermione Graves of Slytherin, to a duel,” she said, her voice light and airy, but firm. In that moment, Hermione decided that she could respect the girl even if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

 

“Well, shit,” Balthazar muttered. He turned to his curly-haired friend. “You don’t have to, Hermione. You’ve been really sick. You can refuse.”

 

The whole room was watching her. She was still at the center of the gossip mill at Hogwarts; everyone knew she’d been too sick to leave bed for her morning classes. Merrythought was starting to intervene.

 

“Caroline, dear, perhaps –“

 

“I accept,” Hermione said. Even her quiet, raspy voice cut through the room, silencing any objections from Merrythought. This was perhaps not her best idea, she thought as she walked excruciatingly slowly towards the platform. Hermione realized that she didn’t know how good of a dueler Caroline was. Did she fight fair? Was she offensive or defensive? Did she move or stand still? How many non-verbal spells did she know?

 

It didn’t really matter at this point because she couldn’t very well back out now. Besides, Hermione thought, it was unlikely that Caroline Cross would be able to beat her, even with the after-effects of the cruciatus making her weak. From up on the platform, she scanned the crowd for a moment, her eyes briefly meeting with Tom’s. He was stony-faced, but she could still read him: he was curious, excited, to see what she could do. Hermione knew then that she would win simply because she could not afford to lose a duel in front of Tom Riddle. Not if she wanted his respect. Not if she wanted him to fear her one day.

 

Hermione and Caroline bowed to each other, Hermione only inclining slightly as her internal damage would not allow any more movement. And then the duel began.

 

Any lingering concerns Hermione might have had about Caroline Cross’s dueling abilities were immediately wiped away. Caroline was an above average dueler: she was quick and had a decent sized repertoire of spells. But she lacked confidence and experience. She was indecisive, an over thinker. Hermione smiled slightly as she lazily deflected three spells in a row, because she had once been very much like Caroline.

 

Hermione had decided to use her ebony wand because Tom was watching and she certainly didn’t want him to know that she had taken her own wand back. The ebony wand, however, was not appreciating the defensive dueling style Hermione had selected, and her magic was encouraging her to end the duel already. Hermione watched as Caroline tossed spell after spell after spell, and waited, casually deflecting every curse and charm without batting an eye.

 

Her moment came. Caroline had stopped for a single second to take a breath, and Hermione silently shot a single, powerful expelliarmus at her, knocking the poor girl off her feet, wand flying easily into Hermione’s hand. She wasted no time in walking over to the girl and handing her her wand.

 

“It was a good duel, Miss Cross,” she said kindly. Caroline looked up at her, indignant, embarrassed, and clearly with the intent of getting revenge. Hermione almost sighed.

 

“It was not a good duel, Miss Graves,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I would appreciate it if you would not condescend to me.”

 

Caroline stood, dusted herself off, and left the platform. Adessa rushed forward to help Hermione down.

 

“That was brilliant,” she said, eyes alight.

 

Hermione raised a brow. “You are too easily impressed, then.”

 

“On the contrary, Miss Graves,” a smooth baritone interjected. Hermione didn’t have to look up to know it belonged to Tom Riddle. “The effortlessness of your duel was incredible.”

 

Hermione offered him a thin smile, eyes cast down in deference. “Such a compliment from you is rare, I understand. I’m flattered.”

 

“Perhaps we could duel sometime when you’re feeling better,” Riddle said, voice low and seductive. “I would give you more of a challenge, and I would love to see what you’re capable of when you’re…unrestrained.” Without another word, he simply turned to rejoin his posse, leaving Adessa and Hermione both very confused.

 

“Is he flirting with you or threatening you?” the redhead asked, brow furrowed.

 

Hermione shook her head. “I honestly have no idea.” She seemed to shake off her thoughts and turned to her friend. “I am feeling rather tired, though, so I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“If you don’t show up to breakfast, I’ll burn down the Slytherin door to find you,” she said, only half-teasing.

 

“I’ll try not to sleep too late, then,” Hermione laughed, the sound grating unpleasantly from the roughness of her throat. 

 

As soon as Hermione and the other Slytherins had disappeared from view, Adessa turned to Balthazar and Euphemia. “Do you think they’ve hurt her?” she asked.

 

Euphemia frowned. “She said she was sick-“

 

“Hermione lies, sometimes,” Balthazar said, seemingly unbothered. “Especially when she thinks it will spare someone else.”

 

“She wouldn’t lie to us,” Euphemia protested, but Adessa was already countering her.

 

“She would.” Adessa ran her hand through her hair and sighed. “Hermione…the truth is that we don’t know much about her life before she came here, but I get the feeling that she’s had to make some hard choices. We don’t know what she is and isn’t capable of.”

 

“She did look a little worse off than just a stomach flu,” Euphemia admitted, suddenly feeling guilty for not having considered it earlier.

 

“A lot worse,” Balthazar said, stony-faced. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looks like she’s had a healthy dose of the cruciatus curse.”

 

“Three guesses who did it,” Adessa spat.

 

Euphemia frowned at her. “Riddle? You really think-“

 

“Name one other person who could’ve gotten away with it,” Balthazar said.

 

The dark haired girl chewed on her bottom lip. They were right, of course. Riddle was the most magically powerful student in the school, and he was a Head Boy. Everyone knew he had an iron grip on Slytherin, that he was considered their king, essentially. But he’d always been so nice, so polite and clever that Euphemia had never considered what kind of person he’d have to be to control the likes of Dolohov and Lestrange. She shuddered.

 

“What do we do?” she asked, looking between her friends. None of them seemed confident.

 

“For now,” Balthazar said, “there’s nothing we can do. Riddle’s got the school wrapped around his finger. We don’t have proof. We don’t have the numbers that he has. The only advantage we have is Hermione, and we still have to convince her to let us help her.”

 

Euphemia nodded decidedly. “Then that’s what we do. We gather proof. We gather support. And we do it quietly. If we’re correct in suspecting Riddle and his friends, then even looking into this matter will be dangerous. We have to assume that they’re not fighting fair – they’re using unforgiveables, for Merlin’s sake – which means we can’t either.”

 

Balthazar smirked. “I’ll make the necessary inquiries.”

 

* * *

 

As Tom looked around the dimly-lit room at his knights, the feeling of satisfaction that he had been craving only this morning hit him. They knelt on the floor around him, deferring to him. This, he decided, was power.

 

“As you all know, I have gathered you here to discuss the future of our plans,” he said. “Rise.”

 

They stood, Abraxas to his immediate right letting out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as one of his knees cracked.

 

“The world is changing, gentlemen. Grindelwald reigns now, but he won’t forever. We have to ensure our place at the top,” Tom paused to look at each of his knights, “and to do that, sometimes we must make…unorthodox choices.”

 

They were all nodding their assent.

 

“I have determined that Hermione Graves is either our most important ally or our most lethal threat,” he said. His knights were less enthusiastic now, but he would show them what there was to admire in the half-blood witch. “You have concerns. Voice them now.”

 

Dolohov was, unsurprisingly, the first to speak up. “Can we trust her? She’s a half-blood and a woman, and she has not shown you the respect you deserve, my lord.”

 

Tom raised a brow. “The same could be said of you, Antonin. Well, the respect part, at least.”

 

The Russian man had the decency to look properly ashamed as the other knights threw him dirty looks.

 

Abraxas turned to his lord. “She is a capable witch, and intelligent as well, my lord, but how do you plan to convert her to our cause? Attempts at isolating her from her Gryffindor friends have proved futile.”

 

“Precisely so,” Riddle said. “I would propose another method entirely. I would need someone to befriend her, to join her little group of friends and work from the inside.”

 

“My lord,” Abraxas said, kneeling before Tom, “I have a tentative acquaintanceship with Hermione. I will foster this, if it is your will.”

 

Tom grit his teeth. “Did you not ineffectively try to torture her not so very long ago?”

 

Abraxas swallowed. “Yes, my lord. But Hermione –“ and from the corner of his eye, Abraxas saw his lord tense, “ – Miss Graves was willing to put that behind us in exchange for an ally in Slytherin.”

 

Tom took a deep breath. “I see. And this is only made known to me now because?”

 

Abraxas paled. “I agreed to her terms, but suspected a trick. I did not wish to bring you news of a false alliance.” Sensing his lord’s foul mood, he hurried to explain, “But I accepted the alliance with your goals in mind, my lord.”

 

Tom nodded shortly. “Everyone out. We’re done for tonight.” As everyone hurriedly began to leave, fearing their lord’s short temper, Tom added, “Not you, Abraxas.”

 

The blond stayed kneeling at his lord’s feet.

 

“I am displeased that you kept this from me, Abraxas,” Tom said as he used his wand to nudge Abraxas’s head up. Seeing the fear in the blond boy’s eyes was borderline euphoric, especially because it was combined with an unfailing loyalty. Afraid, but committed. Tom’s favorite. “But I am more pleased with your initiative. You will escape punishment tonight.”

 

“Thank you, my lord. I will not fail you again.”

 

“Rise,” Tom said, shedding a layer of his Voldemort persona. “There is something else I would discuss with you.”

 

“Of course, my lord.”

 

“It is about Hermione,” Tom continued. “You have no doubt heard the absurd rumors that I am courting her.”

 

“They are hard not to hear, my lord.”

 

Tom turned to look at the only one of his followers he would even consider calling a friend. “I am inclined to make those rumors true.” Abraxas stiffened, but otherwise did not outwardly react. “If, of course, she proves instrumental to our cause. It is how I would recruit her.”

 

“You believe this would work?” Abraxas asked, somewhat incredulous. From what he could tell, Tom and Hermione had little in common besides intelligence and skill. Hermione did not appear to like Tom very much, and Tom had certainly made it clear that he was not the romantic sort. After Tom had held her under the cruciatus and searched through her mind without her consent, Abraxas thought it unlikely that she would be interested in any close contact with the man. And yet, there was a sort of magnetism between them that he would have been stupid not to notice, a sort of push-and-pull of power, and though Abraxas was unwavering in his loyalty to his lord, he sometimes wondered who was really going to win out in the end.

 

“Not without some effort,” Tom admitted grudgingly. “But if she is what I think she is, then she is well worth it.” He licked his lips almost nervously. As if Abraxas thought his lord capable of being nervous. “She’s been in love before.”

 

“You aim to convince her to be in love again,” Abraxas surmised. “With you.”

 

Well that was a whole other challenge altogether. Tom could woo any woman into his bed, provided her interests were inclined towards men, but love? And with a woman like Hermione Graves? Abraxas could imagine that Hermione might fuck Tom, but he could not imagine Hermione in love. Not really.

 

“You think it’s a bad plan,” Tom said, not seeming offended.

 

“I think it’s unsure at best, and a catastrophe at worst,” Abraxas offered. “You’d be better off seducing her into your bed and the dark arts, and leaving love out of it entirely.”

 

Tom huffed a laugh. “Perhaps.”

 

“But?” Abraxas asked, knowing his lord and friend too well.

 

“But I need to surprise her. Throw her off balance,” Tom said. He sneered. “She will not expect tenderness from me.”

 

Abraxas couldn’t fault the man’s logic. “Then be tender when you can afford it, but leave love out of it. She’s too clever to be fooled like that, and it will only make her resent you.”

 

Tom nodded thoughtfully, clapping a hand on Abraxas’s shoulder. “Sound advice. Though I confess I never thought I’d consult you on…” He waved his hand around vaguely, as if unsure as to what they were actually talking about.

 

“Romance,” Abraxas finished for him, smirking at the disgusted look that crossed his lord’s face. “Nor I, my lord, to be sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MUCH AWAITED UPDATE!!!! Wooo-hooooo! 
> 
> I am sorry for the long wait, but to be fair, I just updated a fic I haven't worked on in almost a whole year, so you all should be glad you've only had to wait 3-ish months. 
> 
> Anyway! Please tell me your honest thoughts and opinions. I know some of you were really unhappy with how the last chapter went, and that was good to know. Though I can't promise that your comments will directly affect the course of the story (seeing as the next 15 chapters are already planned) they do encourage me to write faster, and occasionally point out big plot holes/problems in this story that I just don't see. 
> 
> So! Please comment/kudos. Let me know what you think.


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